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THE  MISSING  BKIDE; 

MIE1IM,  TIB  i¥M6!H. 

MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE   LOST    HEIRESS,"    "THE   WIFE'S    VICTORY,"  ETC. 


Sanphte   in  one  volume   of  635  page*,  bound  in  cloth,  for    One  Dollar  and 
Twenty-five  Cents  ;  or  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  for  One  Dollar. 

T.  B.  PETERSON,  takes  great  pleasure  in  presenting  to  the  public,  this 
celebrated  work — being  the  last  one  written  by  Mrs.  Southworth,  which 
has  been  pronounced  by  all  that  have  read  it,  to  be  superior  to  any  one 
ever  before  written  by  this  talented  American  authoress.  They  all  say  that 
it  is  an  engrossing,  thrilling,  and  deeply  interesting  work  :  the  interest 
never  flagging  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  The  scenes  are  all  founded 
on  fa«ts.  The  fertility  of  the  author's  imagination  is  wonderful ;  all 
the  characters  being  admirably  sustained ;  and  in  this,  her  last  work, 
brought  so  vividly  before  her  readers  from  first  to  last.  The  portraiture 
of  the  heroine  is  that  of  a  perfect  woman,  and  yet  a  beautiful,  loving, 
and  tender  creature.  The  publisher  takes  pleasure  in  quoting  some  no- 
tices of  the  opinion  held  of  Mrs.  Southworth,  from  several  of  the  most 
candid  and  able  journalists  in  the  United  States. 

READ  THE  FOLLOWING  OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 

"Mrs.  Southworth  is,  beyond  all  question,  the  most  powerful  female 
writer  in  America,  if  not  in  the  world.  No  one  ever  read  a  chapter  of 
one  of  her  works  without  wishing  to  read  the  whole  book,  and  none  ever 
rend  one  of  her  books  without  admiring  the  rare  genius  of  its  author, 
and  wishing  that  she  might  soon  write  another.  The  'Missing  Bride' 
will  be  welcomed  by  such,  especially,  and  those  who  have  never  read  the 
works  of  this  gifted  woman  should  not  fail  to  buy  this  book." — Jersey 
glue,  Camden,  N.  J. 

"Its  authoress  is  equalled  but  by  few  and  excelled  by  no  living  female 
writer.  Her  style  is  free  from  insipidity  on  the  one  hand  and  bombast 
CD  the  other;  and  though  we  meet  with  forcible,  we  are  never  startled 
with  inflated  language.  Her  characters  are  rarely  under,  but  never  over- 
drawn. Her  scenes  are  life  pictures,  her  incidents  founded  on  facts,  and 
her  sentiments  are  characterized  by  a  singular  purity  both  of  conception 
and  expression.  She  has  the  rare  faculty  of  saying  what  she  means,  and 
of  saying  it  in  such  a  manner  as  that  her  meaning  cannot  be  misinter- 
preted. In  short,  she  possesses  in  an  eminent  degree  those  qualifications 
which  are  the  peculiar  prerogatives  of  a  good  writer;  while  she  delights 
the  reader's  imagination  with  her  descriptive  beauty,  she  applies  homo 
truths  to  his  understanding  with  the  force  of  rational  conviction.  The 
'Missing  Bride'  has  been  pronounced  by  those  who  have  examined  it  aud 


11  OPINIONS      OP      THE      PE3SS. 

arc  competent  to  decide,  to  be  her  best  -work.  This  is  sufficient  to  com- 
mend it  to  perusal,  and  we  anticipate  for  it  an  unwonted  popularity."— 
Gazette,  Lansingburgh,  N.  Y. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth  is  the  first  female  author  of  America.  There  is 
more  originality  in  the  productions  of  Mrs.  Southworth  than  in  any 
other  author  we  know  of,  of  the  female  sex.  She  never  '  tears  a  pas- 
sion to  tatters,'  as  is  too  often  the  case  with  authors  of  her  eex — a  fail- 
ing which  enfeebles  their  works  and  destroys  the  effect  of  their  most 
brilliant  chapters.  Even  Maria  Jane  Porter  was  not  free  from  this  failing ; 
but  Mrs.  Southworth  is.  She  has  a  comprehensiveness  of  intellect  not 
eurpassed  by  Dickens  or  Bulwer,  and  as  great  a  facility  of  detail  as  the 
former  of  these  eminent  authors.  Long  may  she  live  to  give  us  more  of 
the  splendid  creations  of  her  imagination.  In  the  present  state  of  lite- 
rature in  this  country,  we  could  illy  spare  such  a  writer  as  Mrs.  South- 
worth."—  New  York  Police  Gazette. 

"  She  is  one  of  the  most  original  and  talented  of  living  female  wri- 
ters."— Public  Ledger. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth  is  the  first  female  prose  writer  of  America,  beyond 
the  shadow  of  doubt.  She  is  almost  wholly  free  from  the  great  fault  of 
female  authors,  that  of  tearing  sentiment  to  tatters,  and  dwelling  upon 
matters  until  the  reader  grows  weary,  which  arc  merely  excrescences, 
having  no  connection  with  the  plot  of  the  story.  This  is  apparent  in 
both  the  Misses  Porter — in  nearly  all,  in  fact,  of  the  authoresses  of 
England,  as  well  as  in  those  of  America.  Mrs.  Southworth  is  the  bright 
exception  which  proves  the  rule.  She  has  written  numerous  works  of 
considerable  length  and  absorbing  interest,  and  an  indescribable  charm 
pervades  them  all.  There  is  a  chasteness  and  purity  in  all  she  writes 
which  has  a  peculiar  charm.  She  never  ventures  to  express  a  thought 
•which  by  any  possibility  can  be  badly  misconstrued  ;  no  one,  however 
sensitive,  can  rise  from  the  perusal  of  one  of  her  entertaining  volumes 
without  feeling  the  better  for  it;  and  herein  consists,  if  not  the  sole 
charm,  the  sole  glory  of  an  author." — New  York  Weekly  Dispatch. 

"  A  writer  of  great  genius  and  originality." — Saturday  Courier. 

"As  a  story  writer,  this  lady  has  no  superior.  She  ranks  as  the  first 
female  author  of  America,  and  deservedly  so.  Her  works  have  attained 
the  highest  reputation,  not  only  as  works  of  fiction,  but  for  the  peculiar 
beauty  and  fascination  which  she  weaves  into  every  page  of  her  romances. 
Her  descriptions  of  character  and  incidents  are  life-like  and  vivid,  and 
always  charm  and  delight  the  reader.  We  predict  for  the  'Missing 
Bride'  not  only  a  nattering  reception,  but  a  very  extensive  sale."—  Uau- 
ntr,  Clarion,  Pa. 

"Mrs.  Southworth  is  so  widely  known,  and  has  established  so  high  a 
reputation  as  one  of  the  first  writers  of  the  day,  that  it  is  superfluous  to 
dwell  upon  her  particular  excellencies,  her  fertile  fancy,  originality,  skill 
in  portraying  character,  painting  scenery,  and  knowing  how  to  avoid  that 
extravagant  sentimentality,  so  common  to  female  writers." — Chronicle, 
Clarksville,  Tenn. 

"Her  works  enjo.y  an  immense  sale  in  Europe  and  America.  The 
works  of  Mrs.  Southworth  are  distinguished  for  their  high  moral  tone, 
ns  well  as  spirit,  grace,  and  beauty.  We  read  with  great  pleasure  all  the 
works  of  Mrs.  S.,  and  esteem  her  one  of  the  best  writers  of  fiction  ip  thf) 
country.1' — Sunday  Newts,  J-inston,  J/<w;s. 


OPINIONS      OP      THE      PRESS.  lli 

"This  anthor  is  decidedly  the  best  American  writer  of  the  age.  Every 
iover  of  romance  will  hail  with  delight  the  appearance  of  this  new  novel. 
The  productions  of  Mrs.  Southworth's  pen  are  gems  of  the  first  order, 
and  win  the  admiration  of  all  readers." — Democrat,  Eaton,  0. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth  is  well  known  to  the  reading  world  as  a  writer  of 
exceeding  brilliancy  and  power.  Her  stories,  though  the  most  thrilling 
and  interesting,  bear  an  impress  of  reality  that  is  seldom  found  in  the 
romances  of  the  day.  She  never  goes  into  the  extravagances  of  incident 
and  passion  so  common  with  many  of  our  writers,  and  so  insipid  to  all 
sensible  readers." — Chronicle  and  Advocate,  Waukegan,  lilt. 

"Mrs.  Southworth  is  one  of  the  worthy  female  writers  of  America, 
and  occupies  the  uppermost  shelf  in  our  great  intellectual  larder.  All 
readers  will  find  something  bold,  vigorous,  dashing,  life-like  and  original 
in  this  volume." — Literary  Budget,  Chicago,  Ills. 

"Mrs.  Southworth  is,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  best  fiction  writer  in  the 
United  States.  Her  works  are  universally  well  received." — N.  York  Ledger. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth,  as  an  author,  is  well  known  to  our  reading  circle. 
We  have  regarded  her  as  one  of  the  first  of  the  American  female  novel- 
ists— probably  in  the  power  of  delineating  passion  and  character,  she  haa 
no  superior.  Her  works  from  these  characteristics  are  always  popular — • 
while  her  own  genial  nature  assures  their  truthfulness." — Free  West, 
Chicago,  Ills. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth  is  distinguished  for  the  spirit  and  power  of  her  con- 
versations, as  well  as  for  the  beauty  and  grace  of  her  narratives.  In 
power  of  description  she  has  no  superior,  and  there  is  a  chasteness  and 
purity  in  all  that  she  writes,  which  cannot  fail  to  commend  her  to  the 
approbation  of  every  thoughtful  mind." — Bait.  Republican  £  Argus. 

"  She  is  a  writer  of  genius  and  originality,  and  has  no  superior  in  de- 
picting character  and  scenery." — Buffalo  Courier. 

"She  has  written  numerous  works  of  considerable  length  and  absorb- 
ing interest,  and  an  indescribable  charm  pervades  them  all.  There  is  a 
chasteness  and  purity  in  all  she  writes  which  has  a  peculiar  charm.  She 
never  ventures  to  express  a  thought  which  by  any  possibility  can  be  badly 
misconstrued;  no  one,  however  sensitive,  can  rise  from  the  perusal  of  one 
of  her  entertaining  volumes  without  feeling  the  better  for  it;  and  herein 
consists,  if  not  the  sole  charm,  the  sole  glory  of  an  author." — Pottsville 
Register. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth  is  rnpidly  increasing  her  already  wide  reputation  as 
a  novelist.  Her  '  Lost  Heiress'  and  '  Wife's  Victory'  have  had  an  ex- 
tensive sale.  She  is  a  smooth,  easy  writer — not  venturing  a  line  or  word, 
which  will  sully  the  printed  page  of  her  volumes,  or  mantle  the  cheek  of 
modesty  with  a  blush.  We  can  cheerfully  recommend  her  volumes  to  our 
readers." — Daily  Dispatch,  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 

"  She  is  the  best  fiction  writer  in  the  country." — Buffalo  Express. 

''  It  is  the  last  work  written  by  this  authoress,  and  is  spoken  of  by  good 
judges  as  one  of  the  best.  The  scenes  are  all  founded  on  facts,  and  are 
portrayed  in  the  graphic  style  of  the  authoress,  which  cannot  fail  to 
render  the  story  one  of  the  most  absorbing  kind.  As  a  female  novelist, 
Mrs.  Southworth  has  not  a  superior."-  -Turin  Valley  Locomotive,  German" 
iou-n,  0. 


IV  OPINIONS      OF      THE      PRESS. 

"Mrs  S.Mithworth  is  the  most  talented  writer  of  romance  in  America. 
Her  characters  are  always  well  sustained,  and  in  this  work  are,  if  pos- 
sible, more  than  usually  vivid  and  marked." — Agitator,  Welhborough,  fa. 

"  Her  pictures  of  life  are  vivid  and  truthful." — Sunday  Times. 

"  'The  Missing  Bride'  is  from  the  pen  of  that  popular  authoress,  Mrs. 
Southworth,  which  is  pronounced  by  all  who  have  examined  it,  as  an  en- 
grossing, thrilling,  and  deeply  interesting  work — the  scenes  being  all 
founded  on  facts.  Mrs.  Southworth  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  best  Ame- 
rican writer  of  the  a«e,  and  any  work  from  her  pen  can  be  relied  upon 
for  its  chasteness  and  purity." — Citizen  and  Gazette,  Urbana,  Ohio. 

"She  is  now  acknowledged  to  be  the  best  American  novel  writer  of  the 
age.  For  genius  and  originality,  the  general  impression  is,  that  uhe 
has  no  superior." — Whig,  Randolph,  N.  Y. 

"  Mrs.  Southworth  is  an  authoress  of  great  merit." — N.  0.  Daily 
Courant. 

"  She  is  a  woman  of  brilliant  genius.  There  is  a  depth  of  thought 
and  power  of  expression  in  her  writings  far  beyond  the  usual  run  of  ro 
mance  writings,  and  her  descriptive  powers  are  rarely  equalled." — Clin- 
ton Express,  Detroit,  Mich. 

"  Her  name  on  the  title  page  of  a  book  is  a  host  in  itself." — New  York 
Sunday  Allax. 

"Mrs.  Southworth  is  one  of  the  first  female  writers  of  fiction  of  the 
present  age,  and  this  is  one  of  her  most  happy  efforts.  Her  stories, 
though  the  most  thrilling  and  interesting,  bear  an  impress  of  reality  that 
is  seldom  found  in  the  novels  of  the  day.  Her  knowledge  and  correct 
appreciation  of  human,  nature,  joined  with  a  remarkable  power  of  ex- 
pression, enables  her  to  bring  the  narration  of  stories  home  to  the  hearts 
and  understandings  of  her  readers.  She  never  goes  into  the  extrava- 
gances of  passion  and  incident  that  are  so  common  with  many  writers,  and 
eo  tasteless  to  all  sensible  readers." — Tribune  $  Telegraph,  Kenosha,  Wis. 

"  Her  scenes  stand  out  in  bold  relief — like  a  splendid  painting  from  a 
skillful  artist." — Philadelphia  Advertiser. 

"This  work  is  the  lost  production  of  Mrs.  Southworth,  the  accom- 
plished author  of  'The  Lost  Heiress,'  a  lady  who  wields  a  more  vigorous 
and  quite  as  graceful  a  pen  as  any  one  of  the  talented  sisterhood  of  our 
country.  We  predict  an  extensive  sale  for  the  work." — Orleans  Repub- 
lican, Albion,  N.  Y. 

"Mrs.  Southworth,  the  authoress,  is  one  of  the  most  graphic  and 
truthful  delineators  of  character  in  America,  and  this  last  thrilling  work 
from  her  pen  will  be  sought  for  and  perused  with  the  most  intense  and 
bbsorbing  interest." — Osweao  Co.  Gazette,  Fulton,  N.  Y. 

"  We  always  read  her  creations  with  great  pleasure." — Sunday  News. 

Big"" Copies  of  either  edition  of  the  work,  will  be  sent  to  any  person, 
to  any  pnrt  of  the  United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  their  remitting  the 
price  of  the  edition  they  may  wish,  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter,  post-paid 

Published  and  for  Sale  by  T.  B.  PETER  SOX, 

No.  102  Chestnut  Strict,  Philadelphia. 


tnOKBNODOH 


THE  MISSING  BRIDE; 


MIRIAM,   THE  AVENGER. 


MRS.  EMMA  I).  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 

1CTUOK    OF    "TIIK    T,OST    IIKIRESS."    "TUB    WIFE'S    VICTORY,"   "CUKSJE 
CLJJTTON,"  "1I1E  DliSCAIUJED  DAUGHTER,"  ETC. 


A  dancing  Shape — an  Imape  par 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  wayiay. 

A  Bemjr  breathing  thoughtful  bream, 

A  Traveler  between  life  and  death. 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Kndurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bripht 

With  something  of  angelic  light.— WORDS WOHI*. 


fJ  1)  i !  a  fo  c  I  p  Ij  t  a : 
T.    B.    PETEUSON    AND    BKOTHEKS, 

:<Uli    UlliiSTNUT    STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1855,  by 
T.    B.    PETERSON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  th« 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


TO 


MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "FASHION  AND  FAMINE," 


Ihi3    gooir  13 


WITH    THE    LOVE    AND    ADMIRATION    OF 


PEOSPECT  COTTAGE, 

Jfay  194A,  1855, 


CONTENTS. 


PART      FIRST. 

MM 

i.  Luckenough,    ...                 .....  23 

ii.  The  Flight, 29 

in.  The  Attack, 47 

iv.  Young  America  in  1814 61 

v.  Edith's  Love, 70 

vi.  Edith's  Troubles, 83 


PART      SECOND. 

vn.  Sans  Souci, 92 

vin.  The  Blighted  Heart, 113 

ix.  Marian 124 

x.  Housekeeping  at  Old  Field  Cottage, 136 

xi.  The  May  Blossom, 144 

xn.  Our  Fay 152 

xin.  Sans  Souci's  First  Grief, 166 


PART      THIRD. 

xiv.  Wandering  Fanny, .         .  177 

xv.  The  Forest  Fairy 195 

xvi.  The  Mock-Tournament, 211 

xvn.  The  Sprite  in  the  Convent,        ......  220 

xvni.  Apparition  in  the  Dormitory, 231 

xix.  Doctor  Grimshaw, 242 

xx.  Clipping  a  Bird's  Wings, 255 

XXL  A  Grim  Wedding,     .  280 

(21) 


22 


PART      FOURTH. 

CHAPTKR  TAO1 

xxri.   Dell-Delight, 291 

xxin.  Marian,  the  Inspirer 297 

xxiv.  Love, 810 

xxv.  Forest  Walks, 328 

xxvi.  Cloudy 341 

xxvn.  The  Fairy  Bride, 34(> 

xxvni.  The  Bride  of  an  Hour, 359 

xxix.  Golden  Opinions, 382 

xxx.  Spring  and  Love, 400 

xxxi.  That  Night, 416 

xxxii.  The  Village  Postmistress— The  Intercepted  Letter,  .         .  434 

xxxin.  One  of  Sans  Souci's  Tricks, 450 

xxxiv.  Sans  Souci's  Last  Fun, 462 

xxxv.  Night  and  Storm, 477 

xxxvi.  The  Body  on  the  Beach, 487 

xxxvii.   Marian,         .........  605 

xxxvin.  New  Life, 617 


PART      FIFTH. 

xxxix.  Thurston, 624 

XL.  Miriam, .636 

xii.  Dreams  and  Visions, 643 

XLII.  Discoveries,      .........     653 

XL  in.  Indictment,           .......  671 

xuv.  Marian, .599 

XLV.  The  Trial,             ........  614 

XLVI    Reunion,          ........  329 


THE  MISSING  BRIDE, 

PART     FIRST. 


CHAPTER    I. 

LUCKENOUGH. 
«  A  jolly  place,  'twas  said,  in  days  of  old."—  Wwdewarih. 

DEEP,  in  the  primeval  forest  of  St.  Mary's,  lying  between 
the  Patuxent  and  the  Wicomieo  rivers,  stands  the  ancient 
manor  house  of  Luckenough. 

The  traditions  of  the  neighborhood  assert  the  origin  of  the 
manor,  and  its  quaint,  happy,  and  not  unmusical  name  to  have 
been — briefly  this — 

— That  the  founder  of  Luckenough  was  Alexander  Kalouga, 
a  Polish  soldier  of  fortune,  some  time  in  the  service  of  Cecilius 
Calvert,  Baron  of  Baltimore,  first  Lord  Proprietary  of  Mary- 
land. This  man  had,  previous  to  his  final  emigration  to  the 
JSTow  World,  passed  through  a  life  of  the  most  wonderful  vicis- 
situdes— wonderful  even  for  those  days  of  romance  and  adven- 
ture. It  was  said  that  he  was  born  in  one  quarter  of  the  globe, 
educated  in  another,  initiated  into  warfare  in  the  third,  and 
buried  in  the  fourth.  In  his  boyhood  he  was  the  friend  and 
pupil  of  Guy  Fawkes,  he  engaged  in  the  gunpowder  plot,  and 
afier  witnessing  the  terrible  fate  of  his  master,  he  escaped  to 
Spanish  America,  where  he  led,  for  years,  a  sort  of  buccaneer 

'23) 


24  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

life.  He  afterwards  returned  to  Europe,  and  then  followed 
years  of  military  service  wherever  his  hireling  sword  was  needed. 
But  the  soldier  of  fortune  was  ill-paid  by  his  mistress.  His 
misfortunes  were  as  proverbial  as  his  bravery,  or  as  his  en- 
ergetic complaints  of  "ill  luck"  could  make  them.  He  had 
drawn  his  sword  in  almost  every  quarrel  of  his  time,  on  every 
battle  field  in  Europe,  to  find  himself,  at  the  end  of  his  military 
career,  no  richer  than  he  was  at  its  beginning — save  in  wounds 
and  scars,  honor  and  glory,  and  a  wife  and  son.  It  was  at  this 
point  of  his  life  that  he  met  with  Leonard  Calvert,  and  em- 
barked with  him  for  Maryland,  where  he  afterwards  received 
from  the  Lord  Proprietary  the  grant  of  the  manor  "aforesaid." 
It  is  stated  that  when  the  old  soldier  went  with  some  com- 
panions to  take  a  look  at  his  new  possessions,  he  was  so  pleased 
with  the  beauty,  grandeur,  richness  and  promise  of  the  place, 
that  a  glad  smile  broke  over  his  dark,  storm-beaten,  battle- 
scarred  face,  and  he  remained  still  "smiling  as  in  delighted 
visions,"  until  one  of  his  friends  spoke,  and  said, 

"Well,  comrade  !     Is  this  luck  enough  ?" 

"Yaw,  mine  frient!"  answered  the  new  lord  of  the  manor,  in 
his  broken  English,  cordially  grasping  the  hand  of  his  com- 
panion, "dish  ish  loke  enough!" 

Different  constructions  have  been  put  upon  this  simple  answer 
— first,  that  Lukkinnuf  was  the  original  Indian  name  of  the 
tract ;  secondly,  that  Alexander  Kalouga  christened  his  manor 
in  honor  of  Loekenoff,  the  native  village  of  his  wife,  the  heroic 
Marie  Zelenski,  the  companion  of  all  his  campaigns  and 
•voyages,  and  the  first  lady  of  his  manor;  thirdly,  that  the 
grateful  and  happy  soldier  had  only  meant  to  express  his  per- 
fect satisfaction  with  his  fortune,  and  to  say, 

"Yes,  this  is  luck  enough  !  luck  enough  to  repay  me  for  all 
the  past !" 

Be  it  as  it  may,  from  time  immemorial  the  place  has  been 
"Luckenough." 

The  manor  comprises  several  hundred  acres  of  cleared  land, 
and  a  considerable  portion  of  the  surrounding  forest. 


LUCKENOUGH.  25 

Of  tne  magnificence  of  that  old  forest,  of  the  gigantic  growth 
of  its  timber,  the  fabulous  size  of  some  of  its  trees,  the  hoary 
grandeur  of  its  rocks,  the  lovely  beauty  of  its  rivulets,  the 
mystic  depth  of  its  caverns,  the  impenetrable  labyrinths  of  its 
thickets,  where  never  a  human  foot  fell,  of  the  luxuriant  ex- 
uberance of  happy  animal  life,  flourishing,  increasing,  and  en- 
joying existence  undisturbed  by  man — of  all  these  bewildering 
glories  of  nature  in  the  old  forest,  it  is  pleasauter  to  dream 
than  to  tell.  No  poet  or  artist  ever  trod  those  solitudes, 
or  he  would  have  been  bewildered  with  the  richness  of  the 
subject. 

Deep  soiled,  heavily  wooded,  and  well  watered,  the  manor 
of  Luckenough  is  one  of  the  richest  in  old  Mai-yland.  Shut  in 
by  the  encompassing  forest,  and  approachable  only  by  the 
worst  of  roads,  it  is  completely  isolated  from  the  neighboring 
plantations. 

As  you  enter  upon  the  manor  by  one  of  these  roads — after 
passing  here  and  there  several  broad  fields  of  wheat,  tobacco, 
and  corn,  situated  in  the  occasional  clearings — you  finally 
emerge  from  the  forest  and  find  yourself  in  a  comparatively 
open  space,  and  before  a  collection  of  massive  buildings  of  dark, 
red  color,  irregular  in  form  and  size,  and  thickly  interspersed 
and  overshadowed  with  titanic  oak  and  elm  trees.  The  place 
looks  like  a  woodland  village  charmed  into  repose — it  is  the 
group  of  the  manor-house,  offices,  barns,  granaries,  stables,  and 
negro  quarters  of  Luckenough.  In  the  background,  and  all 
around,  you  see  the  encompassing  forest  again.  There  are 
orchards  and  gardens  and  broad  fields  of  grain  behind,  such  as 
you  passed  in  coming,  but  they  are  so  hidden  by  the  many  in- 
tervening trees,  that  you  can  only  catch  an  occasional  glimpse 
of  them  to  assure  you  that  it  is  not  in  Arcadia,  or  before  a 
castle  of  Indolence,  but  upon  a  Maryland  plantation,  that  you 
stand.  There  is  no  conservatory  and  no  flower  garden  near 
the  house.  The  shade  is  too  thick  there  for  anything  but  grass 
to  thrive. 

You  enter  the  lawn  bv  a  massive  but  decoyed  gate  on  tho 


26  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ri-rlit,  and  go  around  a  shaded  semi-circular  avenue  that  leada 
you  up  in  front  of  the  mansion. 

A  charmed  air  of  stillness  and  silence  pervades  the  place,  for 
the  negroes  are  all  absent  in  the  fields,  the  master  is  asleep  over 
last  month's  newspaper,  and  the  mistress  is  with  her  maids  in 
the  back  spinning-room.  The  house  fronts  north  j  it  is  built 
of  the  darkest  red  bricks,  and  is  three  stories  high,  with  a  very 
steep  roof,  broken  into  three  gables  front  and  back,  and  one  at 
each  end — an  old  fashioned,  fantastical  style  of  architecture 
highly  favorable  to  leakages,  as  the  attic  and  the  upper  cham- 
bers of  Luckenough  can  testify.  The  three  front  gables  are 
perforated  by  three  dormer  windows,  under  which  come,  in  a 
perpendicular  line,  the  windows  of  the  lower  stories.  The  cen- 
tral gable  is  the  smallest,  though  its  row  of  windows  is  the 
largest,  for  they  light  the  spacious  passages,  that  on  every  floor 
run  through  the  house  from  front  to  back,  dividing  the  east 
from  the  west  chambers.  The  principal  entrance  occupies  the 
centre  of  the  front  of  the  house.  Above  it  is  a  stone  scroll, 
built  into  the  wall,  and  bearing  in  old  English  characters,  half 
effaced,  this  inscription — "A.  K.  1644.  Will  is  Fate."  By 
which  you  may  know  that  at  this  time  the  old  house  has  stood 
the  storms  of  two  hundred  winters.  The  portico  is  more 
modern  and  ruder  than  any  part  of  the  building,  in  fact  it  is 
quite  unworthy  the  old  mansion,  being  nothing  more  than  a 
rough  oak  porch  put  up  by  a  country  carpenter,  to  replace  the 
old  one,  and  shade  the  front  door.  You  ascend  by  a  few  rough 
steps,  and  stand*  upon  the  threshold.  And  there  you  may  well 
pause,  for  the  door  is  wide  open,  and  there  is  no  servant  in 
attendance. 

It  is  a  wide  passage  that  you  see  before  yen,  with  a  door 
open  at  the  farther  end,  through  which  you  notice  the  back 
lawn,  with  linen  bleaching  on  the  grass,  and  trees,  and  a  part 
of  the  garden  fence.  The  hall  is  flanked  each  side  by  doors 
leading  into  various  apartments,  and  the  left  of  the  centre  is 
occupied  by  the  staircase.  Placed  against  the  wall,  in  a  line 
with  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  is  a  painted  wooden  settee,  and 


LUCKEXOUGH.  27 

there,  sound  asleep,  this  summer  day,  is  the  master ;  the  old 
yellow  newspaper  he  has  just  been  reading,  laid  over  his  head. 
The  powerful  draught  of  air  drawn  by  the  opposite  open  doors 
flutters  the  paper  upon  his  face,  but  he  does  not  wake.  A  lazj 
black  and  white  mastiff  lying  at  full  length  under  the  settee, 
crawls  out  and  snuffs  at  you,  and  having  satisfied  himself  by 
the  smell  that  you  are  an  honest  stranger,  if  not  un  acquaint- 
ance, he  goes  and  lies  down  again,  and  the  stillness  remains 
unbroken.  Yet,  if  you  like,  you  need  not  fear  to  break  the 
spell  of  silence  by  waking  the  thunders  of  that  old  brass  griffin 
that  forms  the  knocker  of  the  open  door,  for  were  you  a  travel- 
ing wooden  nutmeg  vender,  lecturer,  pedlar,  or  any  other  sort 
of  peripatetic  nuisance,  you  would  still  be  a  welcome  and  an 
honored  guest  at  Luckenough,  for  everything  is  welcome  that 
breaks  the  dull  monotony  of  still  life — I  had  nearly  said 
stagnant  life — there. 

So  isolated,  indeed,  was  the  manor,  that  for  generations  the 
owners  seemed  to  consider  it  the  very  centre  of  things  created 
— the  capital  of  civilization,  and  to  sneer  at  all  beyond  the 
forest  as  mere  "outside  barbarians."  I  will  not  say  but  that 

they  might  admit  the  neighboring  little  port  of  B ,  and 

the  city  of  Baltimore,  to  be  useful  appendages  to  LucketJough 
— created  for  the  convenience  of  the  masters  of  Luckenough, 
seeing  that  they  were  necessary  to  the  shipping  and  sale  of  to- 
bacco, wheat  and  corn,  the  staple  productions  of  Luckenough. 
Now  if  you  ask  whether  the  men  of  the  family  never  were 
forced  into  the  world  of  business,  or  if  the  youths  never  were 
sent  to  college,  and  so  learned  to  modify  the  exaggerated 
exotism  of  their  race,  I  answer  no.  The  head  of  the  family 
usually  effected  his  sales  and  made  his  purchases  through  hia 

B agent,  a  shrewd,  long-headed  trader,  -who  did  business 

with  several  important  mercantile  houses  in  Baltimore,  and  was 
little  likely  to  cross  the  self-conceit  of  his  most  protitable  pa- 
tron. And  as  for  the  young  men  of  the  house  they  never  went 
farther  into  the  world  for  their  education  than  the  neighboring 
academy  of  C ,  an  old  and  well  established  classical  and 


28  THE      MISSING      BRIDE, 

mathematical  school,  founded  by  the  planters  for  the  benefit  of 
their  sons — but  not  well  calculated  to  prune  the  pride  of  the 
proudest  among  them — for  even  there  the  boys  of  Luckenough 
assumed  to  be  lords  paramount  of  their  schoolmaster.  And  if 
any  member  of  the  family,  by  a  rare  chance,  went  upon  his  tra- 
vels, he  was  sure  to  pass  through  the  world  the  same  self-centred, 
self-satisfied,  isolated  creature,  and  to  return  as  he  went,  un- 
improved. The  community  around  Luckenough  certainly  con- 
spired to  foster  the  haughtiness  of  that  family.  For  in  almost 
every  country  there  is  one  great  estate  so  pre-eminent  in  size, 
value  and  importance,  as  to  be  an  enduring  object  of  interest 
and  speculation  to  the  community,  and  to  clothe  its  owner  with 
rather  an  undue  authority  in  all  agricultural,  commercial,  po- 
litical, and  other  questions  of  the  neighborhood.  And  Luck- 
enough  and  its  proprietors  had  enjoyed  this  evil  distinction 
since  the  days  of  its  foundation. 

A  host  of  dependants — needy  relations  also,  contributed  to 
cultivate  this  spirit  of  self-importance  in  the  head  of  the  house. 
And  never  was  Irish  tribe  more  prolific,  or  Scotch  clan  more 
united,  as  a  family.  It  had  been  the  custom  of  the  masters  of 
Luckenongh,  from  the  time  of  its  ambitious  founder,  to  be- 
queath the  undivided  landed  estate  to  the  eldest  son — or  failing 
sons — to  the  eldest  daughter — and  to  portion  off  the  other 
children  with  moderate  legacies  of  money  or  personal  property, 
sufficient,  had  they  been  of  an  industrious,  frugal,  and  enterpris- 
ing race — to  start  them  fairly  in  life ;  but  being  what  they  were — 
proud,  indolent  and  hopeless,  it  was  not  always  enough  to  keep 
them  in  decent  poverty.  Hence  the  purse  of  the  proprietor  jf 
Lncketlough  was  often  called  into  requisition,  and  never  in 
vaiu,  for  any  expense  would  have  been  readily  met  by  the  head 
of  the  family,  rather  than  the  mortification  of  seeing  one  of  its 
members  in  the  poor  house  or  the  prison. 

So  generation  after  generation  vegetated  the  dull  family  of 
Luckenough — every  son  more  hopelessly  thick-headed  and  self- 
satisfied  than  his  father  before  him,  and  living  on  because  tJie.y 
had  not  life  tnovyh  to  dis — or  in  other  words,  lasting  because 


THEFLIGHT.  2tJ 

the  calm,  depressed  tone  of  their  constitutions  and  conditions 
never  at  any  time  made  draft  enough  upon  the  vital  powers,  to 
weaken  or  exhaust  them.  Thus  year  after  year  vegetated  ox 
the  dull  family  of  Luckenough,  until  in  the  fullness  of  time,  in 
the  year  of  grace  1814,  the  stagnant  pool  of  their  existence  was 
stirred  by  "  something  different  from  the  wing  of  a  descending 
angel,"  and  the  dull  monotony  of  its  history  was  developed  into 
a  startling  romance — the  first  chapter  of  which  is  the  chapter 
next  succeeding. 


CHAPTER,    II. 

THE       PLIGHT. 

"  Ah  1  tben  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  mounting  in  hot  haste  I"— Byron. 

THE  owner  of  Luckenough  at  this  time  was  Commodore 
Nickolas  Waugh,  who  inherited  the  property  in  right  of  his 
mother,  the  only  child  and  heiress  of  Peter  Kalouga. 

This  man  had  the  constitution  and  character,  not  of  his  mo- 
ther's, but  of  his  father's  family — a  hardy,  rigorous,  energetic 
Montgomery  race,  full  of  fire,  spirit  and  enterprise.  At  the 
age  of  twelve,  Nickolas  lost  his  father. 

At  fifteen,  he  began  to  weary  of  the  tedium  of  Luckenough, 
varied  only  by  the  restraint  of  the  academy  during  term. 
And  at  sixteen  he  rebelled  against  the  rule  of  his  indolent  lym- 
phatic mamma,  broke  through  the  reins  of  domestic  govern- 
ia;nt,  escaped  to  Baltimore,  and  shipped  as  cabin  boy  in  a 
merchantman. 

I  said  that  he  inherited  the  constitution  of  his  father's  fa- 
mily ;  yet  one  might  fancy  by  his  career  from  the  time  of  his 
taking  to  the  sea,  that  the  spirit  of  old  Alexander  Kalonga  had 
revisited  the  earth  in  the  form  of  a  descendant. 
2 


3S  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Xickolas  "Waugh  went  through  many  adventures,  server!  on 
board  merchantmen,  privateers,  and  haply  pirates  too,  sailed  to 
every  part  of  the  known  world,  and  led  a  wild,  reckless  and 
sinful  life,  until  the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolutionary  War, 
when  he  took  service  with  Paul  Jones,  the  American  Sea  King, 
and  turned  the  brighter  part  of  his  character  up  to  the  light. 
lie  performed  miracles  of  valor — achieved  for  himself  a  name 
and  a  post-captain's  rank  in  the  infant  navy,  and  finally  was 
permitted  to  retire  with  a  bullet  lodged  under  his  shoulder 
blade,  a  piece  of  silver  trepanned  in  the  top  of  his  skull,  a  deep 
sword-cut  across  his  face  from  the  right  temple  over  his  nose 
to  the  left  cheek — and  with  the  honorary  title  of  Commodore. 

He  was  a  perfect  beauty  about  this  time,  no  doubt,  but  that 
did  not  prevent  hinr  from  receiving  the  hand  of  his  cousin, 
Henrietta  Kalouga,  who  had  waited  for  him  many  a  weary  year. 

No  children  blessed  his  late  marriage,  and  as  year  after  year 
passed,  until  himself  and  his  wife  were  well  stricken  in  years 
people,  who  never  lost  interest  in  the  great  estate,  began  to 
wonder  to  which  among  his  tribe  of  impoverished  relations, 
Nickolas  Waugh  would  bequeath  the  manor  of  Luckenough. 

Ilis  choice  fell  at  length  upon  his  orphan  grand-niece,  the 
beautiful  Edith  Lance,  whom  he  took  from  the  Catholic  Orphan 
Asylum,  where  she  had  found  refuge  since  the  death  of  her 
parents,  and  placed  in  one  of  the  best  Convent  schools  in  the 
south. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen,  Edith  was  brought  home  from 
school,  and  established,  at  Luckenough,  as  the  adopted  daugh- 
ter and  acknowledged  heiress  of  her  uncle. 

Delicate,  dreamy  and  retiring,  and  tinged  with  a  certain  pen- 
si  veness,  the  effect  of  too  much  early  sorrow  and  seclusion  upon 
a  very  sensitive  temperament,  Edith  better  loved  the  solitude 
of  the  grand  old  forest  of  St.  Mary's,  or  the  loneliness  of  her 
own  shaded  rooms  at  Luckenough,  than  any  society  the  hum- 
drum neighborhood  could  offer  her.  And  when  at  the  call  of 
social  duty  she  did  go  into  company,  she  exercised  a  refining 
ar.d  subduing  influence,  involuntary  as  it  was  potent. 


THE      FLIGHT.  31 

There  was  one  social  amusement,  however,  that  Edith  really 
did  like  to  favor.  That  was  the  annual  ball  at  the  C aca- 
demy, given  by  the  students  at  the  commencement,  and  patron- 
ized by  their  sisters,  cousins,  and  young  friends,  male  and  female  I 
These  were  rather  juvenile  parties,  though  parents,  guardi.ins 
and  the  professors  attended,  to  give  the  sanction  of  their  pre- 
sence. 

Edith  was  the  star  of  these  assemblies,  and  the  queen  of 
every  mother's  darling  there.  All  the  students  worshipped  her 
with  that  pure,  passionate  enthusiasm  that  only  school  boys  or 
poets  know  and  feel.  And  Edith — I  know  not  what  harsh 
usage  during  her  orphanage  had  given  her  a  shy  heart  towards 
her  elders  and  equal  in  age,  but  Edith  preferred  the  society  of 
those  younger  than  herself,  and  she  liked  the  frank,  warm- 
hearted college  lads,  as  if  they  had  been  her  brothers.  And 
if  there  were  "  bad  boys"  among  them,  she  did  not  find  it  out, 
for  such  never  came  within  her  sphere,  or  if  by  chance  any  did, 
they  became  ameliorated. 

Edith's  nature  and  the  style  of  her  beauty  was  very  refined. 
Her  form  was  of  medium  size  and  perfect  symrnetery.  Her 
beautiful  head  sat  upon  her  falling  shoulders.  Her  complex- 
ion was  of  the  purest  semi-transparent  fairness  seen  in  the 
white  sea-shell.  Her  forehead  was  shaded  by  fine,  silky,  black 
ringlets,  so  light  as  to  be  lifted  by  every  breeze,  and  throw 
wavering  soft  shadows  upon  her  pearly  cheeks.  Her  eyes  were 
long-shaped,  dark,  veiled  and  drooping — her  countenance  the 
most  dreamy  and  spiritual  yon  ever  saw.  Her  beautiful  bust 
was  daintily  curved,  and  her  graceful  limbs  delicately  rounded 
and  tapering.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  perfect.  She  ulfccted 
the  beholder  with  the  idea  of  extreme  delicacy,  sensitiveness 
and  refinement. 

Yet  in  that  lovely,  fragile  form,  in  that  dreaming,  poetical 
soul,  lay,  uj  developed,  a  latent  power  of  heroism,  soon  to  be 
aroused  into  action.  "  Darling  of  all  hearts  and  eyes,"  Edith 
had  been  at  home  a  year  when  the  war  of  1812  broke  out. 

Maryland,  as  usual,  contributed  her  large  proportion  of  vo- 


32  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

lunteers  to  the  defence  of  the  country.  All  men  capable  of 
bearing  arms,  rapidly  mustered  into  companies,  and  hastened 
to  put  themselves  at  the  disposal  of  the  government. 

The  lower  counties  of  Maryland  were  left  comparatively  un- 
protected. Old  men,  women,  children  and  negroes  were  all 
that  remained  in  charge  of  the  farms  and  plantations.  Yet 
remote  from  the  scenes  of  conflict,  and  hitherto  undisturbed  by 
the  convulsions  of  the  great  world,  they  reposed  in  fancied 
safety,  and  never  thought  of  such  unprecedented  misfortune  as 
the  evils  of  the  war  penetrating  to  their  quiet  homes. 

But  their  rest  of  security  was  broken  by  a  tremendous  shock. 
The  British  fleet,  under  Admiral  Sir  A.  Cochrane,  suddenly 
entered  the  Chesapeake  And  the  quiet,  lonely  shores  of  the 
bay  became  the  scene  of  a  warfare  scarcely  paralleled  in  atro- 
city in  ancient  or  modern  times.  Its  defenceless  villages  and 
hamlets  were  suddenly  run  down  upon,  sacked,  burned  to  the 
ground,  and  the  unresisting  inhabitants  put  to  the  sword. 
Farms  and  plantations  shared  the  same  fate.  Dwelling  houses, 
barns  and  granaries  were  set  on  fire,  and  burned  to  ashes,  and 
the  owners  and  their  families  massacred  in  cold  blood,  and  the 
negroes  driven  off  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  to  the  ships  of 
the  marauders,  there  to  be  drilled  in  military  exercises  and 
afterwards  armed  against  their  own  masters.  Everywhere  the 
enemy  tried  to  excite  the  slaves  to  revolt,  and  threatened  to  add 
the  ghastly  horrors  of  a  servile  insurrection  to  the  accumulated 
evils  of  war.  The  most  horrible  crimes  that  ever  blackened 
the  souls  of  the  most  atrocious  pirates,  could  not  exceed  in 
enormity  the  deeds  done  by  these  licensed  buccaneers,  under 
the  guise  of  civilized  warfare.  It  seemed  as  if  in  their  case 
human  nature  had,  with  headlong  recklessness,  abandoned  itself 
to  the  most  violent  arid  fiendish  passions  of  cruelty,  rapacity 
and  sensuality. 

If  among  this  marauding  band  of  licensed  pirates  and  assas- 
sins there  was  one  name  more  dreaded,  more  loathed  and  ac- 
cursed than  the  rest,  it  was  that  of  the  brutal  and  ferocious 
Thorg — the  frequent  leader  of  foraging  parties,  the  unsparing 


THEFLIGIIT.  33 

destroyer  of  womanhood,  infancy  and  age,  the  jackal  and  pur- 
veyor of  Admiral  Cockburn.  If  anywhere  there  was  a  beau- 
tiful woman  unprotected,  or  a  rich  plantation  house  ill-defended, 
this  jackal  was  sure  to  scent  out  "the  game"  for  his  muster, 
the  lion.  And  many  were  the  comely  maidens  and  youthful 
mves  seized  and  carried  off  by  this  monster. 

The  Patuxent  and  the  Wicomico,  with  the  coast  between 
them,  offered  no  strong  temptation  to  a  rapacious  foe — and  the 
inhabitants  reposed  in  the  fancied  security  of  their  isolation 
and  unimportance.  The  business  of  life  went  on,  faintly  and 
sorrowfully,  to  be  sure,  but  still  went  on.  The  village  shops  at 

B and  C were  kept  open,  though  tended1  chiefly  by 

women  and  boys.  The  academicians,  at  the  little  college,  pur- 
sued their  studies,  or  played  at  forming  juvenile  military  com- 
panies. The  farms  and  plantations  were  cultivated  chiefly 
under  the  direction  of  ladies,  whose  husbands,  sons  and  bro- 
thers were  absent  with  the  army.  No  one  thought  of  danger, 
to  St.  Mary's. 

Most  terrible  was  the  awakening  from  this  dream  of  safety, 
when,  on  the  morning  of  the  17th  of  August,  the  division 
under  the  command  of  Admiral  Cockburn — the  most  dreaded 
and  abhorred  of  all — was  seen  to  enter  the  mouth  of  the  Pa- 
tuxent in  full  sail  for  Benedict.  Nearly  all  the  able-bodied  men 
were,  as  I  said,  absent  with  the  army  at  the  time  when  the  com- 
bined military  and  naval  forces,  under  Admiral  Cockburn  and 
General  Ross,  landed  at  that  place.  None  remained  to  guard 
the  homes,  but  aged  men,  women,  infante  and  negroes.  A 
universal  panic  seized  the  neighborhood,  and  nothing  oc- 
curred to  the  defenceless  people  but  instant  flight.  Females 
and  children  were  hastily  put  into  carriages,  the  most  valuable 
items  of  plate  or  money  hastily  packed  up,  negroes  mustered, 
and  the  whole  caravan  put  upon  a  hurried  march  for  Prince 
George's,  Montgomery,  or  other  upper  counties  of  the  state. 
With  very  few  exceptions,  the  farms  and  plantations  were  eva- 
cuated, and  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  invaders. 

At  sunrise,  all  was  noise,  bustle  and  confusion  at  Luck- 
enough. 


34  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

The  lawn  was  filled  with  baggage  wagons,  horses,  mules, 
cows,  oxen,  sheep,  swine,  baskets  of  poultry,  barrels  of  provi- 
sions, boxes  of  property,  and  men  and  maid  servants  hurrying 
wildly  about  among  them,  carrying  trunks  and  parcels,  loading 
carts,  tackling  harness,  marshaling  cattle,  and  making  other 
preparations  for  a  rapid  retreat  towards  Commodore  "VYauglrs 
patrimonial  estate  in  Montgomery  county. 

In  the  hall  at  Luckenough,  the  master  strode  up  and  down 
among  corded  trunks,  and  yelping  dogs,  and  hurrying  servants. 
He  was  a  man  of  powerful  size  and  weight,  and  formidable 
presence.  He  forcibly  reminded  one  of  a  huge  bull-dog,  or 
rather,  of  the  animal  after  which  it  is  named.  His  great  griz- 
zled head  and  beard,  his  enormous  chest,  huge,  rounded  shoul- 
ders, heavy  limbs  and  measured  tread,  and  a  habit  he  had  when 
vexed,  of  thrusting  forward  his  head  and  bellowing  forth  a 
prolonged  "Oh-h-h-h  !"  assuredly  suggested  the  likeness.  And 
as  he  strode  up  and  down  among  his  men,  the  old  hall  shook 
as  at  the  tread  of  an  elephant.  Fierce  shame  had  lent  unusual 
energy  to  the  old  man's  manner,  and  the  transverse  scar  across 
his  face  glowed  like  a  bar  of  red  hot  iron.  Ill  could  the  vete- 
ran of  twenty  battles  brook  this  rapid  retreat  without  even  a 
meeting  with  the  enemy.  But  well  did  the  invalided  soldier 
know  that  it  would  be  sheer  madness  to  remain  and  encounter 
the  advancing  army  of  the  invaders.  And  so  he  strode  up  and 
down  the  hall,  giving  vent  to  his  impatience  by  swearing  at  the 
terrified  servants,  and  kicking  the  howling  dogs. 

In  the  midst  of  this  the  back  parlor  door  opened,  and  the 
mistress  of  the  house  came  out  into  the  hall.  She  was  a  hand- 
some woman  for  her  age — really  fifty — seeming  forty — with  a 
fair,  fat  person,  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes,  fine  teeth,  much 
displayed  in  her  frequent  smiles,  and  white,  plump  neck  and 
arms,  often  half  uncovered  for  coolness.  Now,  however,  she 
wore  a  close-fitted  Nankeen  pelisse.  A  Leghorn  bonnet  and 
veil  completed  her  dress  for  travelling.  She  had  strong  health, 
calm  nerves,  a  phlegmatic  constitution,  and  an  even,  contented, 
cheerful  temper  It  was  these  things  that  gave  her  such  iuflu- 


THE      FLIGHT.  35 

enoe  over  her  more  excitable  and  impulsive  companion.  She, 
witb  her  serene  temperament  and  easy  disposition,  received  tlw 
occasional  onslaughts  of  the  old  soldier's  violence  very  much  as 
our  troops  at  New  Orleans,  with  their  bales  of  cotton  and  wool, 
received  the  British  cannonading,  and  with  very  much  the  same 
good  efl'ect.  And  now  as  she  came  out  into  the  hall,  her  pre- 
sence acted  like  oil  upon  the  waves — it  calmed  the  commotion. 

The  old  man  turned  towards  her,  and  his  countenance  and 
his  voice  softened  as  he  said — 

"  All  ready  so  soon,  Old  Hen !     But  where  is  Edith  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  thought  she  was  here,"  said  Mistress 
Henrietta. 

"Here !  no  !  and  the  sun  half  an  hour  high !"  and  the  old 
man's  voice  began  to  rise  with  his  temper,  as  he  vociferated,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  at  the  remotest  extremity  of  the  house — 
"Edith  1  Edith !  where  are  you,  you  hussy  ?" 

"  Here  I  am,  uncle,"  said  a  calm,  musical  voice,  and  Edith 
came  out  from  an  adjoining  room. 

Her  white,  flowing  wrapper,  the  slight,  silky,  black  curls 
playing  carelessly  around  the  pearly  forehead,  the  veiled  and 
dreamy  eyes,  the  abstracted  look,  and  more  than  all,  the  little, 
red-bound  volume  she  held  in  her  hand,  seemed  so  unready,  so 
impractical,  that  it  put  the  old  soldier  past  all  his  patience. 

"  Now  will  you  look  at  that  girl !  I  say  I  want  you  all  to 
look  at  her  1"  he  exclaimed,  turning  around.  "  If  upon  this 
morning,  also,  she  isn't  poring  over  a  book,  when  we  are  ready 
to  start !  What  is  it  you  have  got  there,  minx  ?" 

"  Marmion,  sir." 

" Marmion!  What  in  the  fiend's  name  is  that?  Hand  it 
Iiere." 

Edith  obeyed,  and  without  looking  at  the  book,  he  took  it, 
and  hurled  it  out  into  the  lawn,  exclaiming — 

"  There  1  Now  did  you  ever  know  me  to  break  my  wora, 
hussy  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  then  1  go  and  get  ready,  and  be  sure  if  you  are 


36  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

not  here  in  ten  minutes,  we  will  set  forward  without  you." 
And  so  saying,  the  dd  man  set  himself  down  upon  the  wooden 
settee,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  took  his  watch  out  to  note 
the  time. 

Edith  disappeared  into  her  chamber. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  wrong-headed,  romantic  fool !  What 
will  ever  become  of  her  ?  She'll  come  to  a  bad  end,  I'm  afraid, 
with  poring  over  the  fetched  books." 

"  Oh,  poor  thing !  what  can  you  expect  ?  She's  got  no  com- 
panions of  her  own  age.  She  must  amuse  herself  some  way," 
said  good  Henrietta. 

"  Oh-h-h !  companions  of  her  own  age !"  roared  the  Com- 
modore, "  what  does  she  want  with  companions  of  her  own 
age — and  why  can't  she  amuse  herself  knitting  stockings  for 
the  niggers,  like  you  do  ?  I'll  take  and  marry  her  to  Professor 
Grimm,  that's  what  I'll  do  !  And  there'll  be  two  book-worms 
to  keep  each  other's  company.  I'll Oh,  here  she  comes !" 

In  half  the  specified  time  Edith  returned,  equipped  for  her 
journey,  in  her  riding-dress  and  hat. 

"  I  am  ready,  uncle,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  drawing  on  her 
gloves. 

"  Well,  then  we'll  set  forward.  I  want  to  get  as  far  as 

Horsehead  this  day,  if  possible.  A  d d  mean,  miserable 

dog  I  am,  to  be  sneaking  away  from  the  enemy,"  growled  the 
veteran,  to  himself. 

The  doors  opening  into  the  hall  were  then  locked. 

Edith  was  placed  upon  her  pony,  and  attended  by  her  old 
maid  Jenny,  and  her  old  groom  Oliver. 

Commodore  and  Mrs.  Waugh  entered  the  family  carriage, 
which  they  pretty  well  filled  up.  Mrs.  TVaugh's  woman  sat 
upon  the  box  behind,  and  the  Commodore's  man  drove  the 
coach. 

And  the  whole  family  party  set  forward  on  their  journey. 
They  went  in  advance  of  the  caravan,  so  as  not  to  be  hindered 
and  inconvenienced  by  its  slow  and  cumbrous  movements. 
A  ride  of  three  miles  through  the  old  forest,  brought  them  to 


T  H  E      F  L  I  Q  II  T  .  "7 

the  open,  hilly  country.  Here  the  road  forked.  And  here  the 
family  were  to  separate. 

It  had  been  arranged  that,  as  Edith  was  too  delicate  to  bear 
the  forced  march  of  days'  and  nights'  continuance  before  they 
could  reach  Montgomery,  she  should  proceed  to  Hay  Hill,  a 
plantation  near  the  line  of  Charles  county,  owned  by  Colonel 
Fail  lie.  whose  young  daughter,  Fanny,  recently  made  a  bride, 
had  been  the  schoolmate  of  Edith. 

Here,  at  the  fork,  the  party  halted  to  take  leave. 

Commodore  Waugh  called  his  niece  to  ride  up  to  the  car- 
riage window,  and  gave  her  many  messages  for  Colonel  Fairlie, 
for  Fanny,  and  for  Fanny's  young  bridegroom,  and  many 
charges  to  be  careful  and  prudent,  and  not  to  ride  out  unat- 
tended, &c. 

And  then  he  called  up  the  two  old  negroes,  and  charged 
them  to  see  their  young  mistress  safely  at  Hay  Hill,  and  then 
to  return  to  Luckenough,  and  take  care  of  the  house  and  such 
things  as  were  left  behind,  in  case  the  British  should  not  visit 
it,  and  t»  shut  up  the  house  after  them  in  case  they  should 
come  and  rob  it  and  leave  it  standing.  Two  wretched  old 
negroes  would  be  in  little  personal  danger  from  the  soldiers. 

So  argued  Commodore  Waugh,  as  he  took  leave  of  them, 
and  gave  orders  for  the  carriage  to  move  on  up  the  main 
branch  of  the  road  leading  north,  towards  Prince  George's  and 
Montgomery. 

But  so  argued  not  the  poor  old  negroes,  as  they  followed 
Edith  up  the  west  branch  of  the  road  that  led  to  Charles 
county. 

This  pleasant  road  ran  along  the  side  of  a  purling  brook, 
inder  the  shadow  of  the  great  trees  that  skirted  the  forest,  and 
Ednh  ambled  leisurely  along,  low  humming  to  herself  some 
pretty  song,  or  listening  to  the  merry  carols  of  the  birds,  or 
noticing  the  speckled  fish  that  gamboled  through  the  dark, 
glimmering  stream,  or  reverting  to  the  subject  of  her  last 
reading. 

But  beneath  all  this  childish  play  of  fancy,  one  grave,  sor- 


38  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

row ful  thought  lay  heavy  upon  Edith's  tender  heart.  It  waa 
the  thought  of  poor  old  Luckenough,  "  deserted  at  its  utmost 
need,"  to  the  ravages  of  the  foe.  Edith  might  have  been  as 
wrong-headed  and  romantic  as  her  uncle  accused  her  of  being; 
for  now  the  old  mansion,  that  her  heart  clung  to  so  fondly, 
Rt-eined  to  take  a  personal  character,  and  in  the  dumb  eloquence 
of  its  loneliness  and  desertion,  to  reproach  her.  She  thought, 
too,  of  her  own  particular  nook  at  Luckenough,  of  her  cherished 
books  and  pictures  and  musical  instruments,  and  little  statuettes 
of  saints  and  angels  and  heroes  and  heroines,  of  her  vases* and 
boxes  and  baskets,  and  pretty  toys  of  all  sorts,  not  one  of  which 
dreaming  Edith  had  removed  in  her  hasty  departure.  And  she 
thought  of  all  the  dear  old  spots  and  places  about  the  building 
that  she  loved  so  well — -they  seemed  to  her  like  members  and 
features  of  some  faithful  friend,  and  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  their  destruction.  Then  came  the  question  if  it 
were  not  possible,  in  case  of  the  house  being  attacked,  to  save 
it — even  for  her  to  save  it.  Edith's  visionary  head  was  full  of 
stories  of  heroic  women,  who  had  wrought  miracles  ii»  the  way 
of  saving  or  destroying  castles  and  fortified  towns,  or  in  pre- 
serving the  lives  of  fathers,  brothers,  husbands,  and  children. 
And  she  remembered  no  single  instance  in  which  a  woman  had 
lost  life,  limb  or  honor  in  such  an  attempt.  Whatever  other 
women  or  men  either  might  suffer  at  the  hands  of  the  enemy, 
these  heroic  women  always  came  through  triumphantly — so 
Edith's  reading  showed,  and  she  had  no  counter  evidence. 
While  these  things  were  brewing  in  Edith's  mind,  she  rode 
slowly  and  more  slowly,  until  at  length  her  pony  stopped. 
Then  she  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  the  heavy,  downcast  looks 
of  her  attendants. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh  !  Miss  Edith,  don't  ask  me,  honey — don't !  Ain't  we- 
dem  got  to  go  back  to  de  house  and  stay  dar  by  our  two  selves 
artor  AVC  see  you  safe  ?"  said  Jenny,  crying. 

"  No  !  what  ?  you  two  alone  1"  exclaimed  Edith,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other. 


THE      FLIGHT 

"  Yes,  Miss  Edith,  'deed  we  has,  chile — but  you  needn't 
look  so  'stouish  and  'mazed.  You  can't  help  of  it,  chile.  An' 
if  de  British  do  come  dar,  and  burn  de  house,  and  heave  we- 
dem  into  de  fire  jes'  out  of  wanton,  it'll  oriy  be  two  poor,  ole, 
unvaluable  niggers  burned  up.  Ole  marse  know  dat  well 
enough — dat's  de  reason  he  resks  we." 

"But  for  what  purpose  have  you  to  return ?"  asked  Edith, 
wondering. 

"  Oh  !  to  feed  de  cattle  and  de  poultry,  and  take  care  o'  de 
things  dat's  lef  behine,"  sobbed  Jenny,  now  completely  broken 
down  by  her  terrors.  "  I  know — I  jis  does — how  dem  white 
niggers  o'  Co'bu'ns  'ill  set  de  house  o'  fire,  an'  heave  we-dem 
two  poor  old  innocen's  into  de  flames  out'n  pure  debblish  wan- 
ton !» 

Edith  passed  her  slender  fingers  through  her  curls,  stringing 
them  out  as  was  her  way  when  absent  in  thought.  She  was 
turning  the  whole  matter  over  in  her  mind.  She  might  possibly 
save  the  mansion,  though  these  two  old  people  were  not  likely 
to  be  able  to  do  so — on  the  contrary,  their  ludicrous  terrors 
would  tend  to  stimulate  the  wanton  cruelty  of  the  marauders  to 
destroy  them  with  the  house.  Edith  suddenly  took  her  resolu- 
tion, and  turned  her  horse's  head,  directing  her  attendants  to 
follow. 

"But  where  are  you  going  to  go,  Miss  Edith?"  asked  her 
groom,  Oliver,  now  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"Back  to  Luckenough." 

"  What  for,  Miss  Edith,  for  goodness  sake  ?" 

"Back  to  Luckenough  to  guard  the  dear  old  house,  and  take 
care  of  you  two." 

"But  oh,  Miss  Edy !  Miss  Edy !  for  Marster  in  Heaven's 
sake  what '11  'come  o'  you  ?" 

"What  ths  Master  in  Heaven  wills!" 

"  Lord,  Lord,  Miss  Edy  1  ole  marse  'ill  kill  we-dem.  What 
'ill  ole  marse  say  ?  What  'ill  everybody  say  to  a  young  gal; 
a-doin'  of  anything  like  dat  dar  ?  Oh,  dear  I  dear  1  what  will 
everybody  say  ?" 


40  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"They  will  say,"  said  Edith ;  "if  I  meet  the  enemy  and  save 
the  house — they  will  say  that  Edith  Lance  is  a  heroine,  and  her 
name  will  be  probably  preserved  in  the  memory  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. But  if  I  fail  and  lose  my  life,  they  will  say  that  Edith 
was  a  cracked  brained  girl  who  deserved  her  fate,  and  that  they 
had  always  predicted  she  would  come  to  a  bad  end." 

"Better  go  on  to  Hay  Hill,  Miss  Edy !  'Deed,  'fore  marster, 
better  go  to  Hay  Hill." 

"  No,"  said  the  young  girl,  "  my  resolution  is  taken — we  will 
return  to  Luckenough." 

The  arguments  of  the  old  negroes  waxed  fainter  and  fewer. 
They  felt  a  vague  but  potent  confidence  in  Edith  and  her  abilities, 
and  a  sense  of  protection  in  her  presence,  from  which  they  were 
loth  to  part.  - 

The  sun  was  high  when  they  entered  the  forest  shades  again. 

"  See,"  said  Edith  to  her  companions,  "  everything  is  so  fresh 
and  beautiful  and  joyous  here  !  I  cannot  even  imagine  danger." 

They  reached  Luckenough  before  noontide,  and  the  two  old 
people,  with  their  hearts  very  much  lightened  and  cheered,  and 
encouraged  by  the  presence  of  their  young  mistress,  busied 
themselves  with  opening  the  house  and  making  her  comfortable. 
Oliver  put  away  the  horses,  and  went  to  the  spring  for  cold  water, 
and  to  the  mound  for  ice.  And  Jenny  opened  the  shutters  in 
the  young  lady's  room,  helped  her  off  with  her  riding-dress,  put 
it  away,  and  went  and  prepared  dinner.  Edith  went  out  to 
look  for  her  lost  volume  of  Marmion,  found  it  in  the  grass, 
brought  it  in,  and  threw  herself  upon  the  sofa  to  finish  the  poem. 

The  summer  day  was  so  calm  and  cool,  the  forest  home  so  silent 
and  peaceful,  Edith's  own  sensations  so  serene  and  sweet,  that 
she  did  not  realize  the  idea  of  danger.  The  day  passed  calmly 
und  pleasantly. 

But  when  the  evening  shadows  begun  to  fall  darkly  around 
the  old  house,  Edith's  heart  grew  faint  and  oppressed  with  pro- 
phetic terrors. 

Edith  nad  acted  suddenly,  impulsively,  from  the  warmth  o.nd 
generosity  or  ner  own  heart ;  but  had  she  done  well  and  wisely  ? 


THE      FLIGHT.  41 

This  was  the  question  she  asked  herself.  Many  an  enthusiast, 
before  our  girl,  has  acted  in  haste  to  repent  at  leisure.  Yet,  as 
Edith  looked"  upon  the  beloved  old  homestead  that  she  was  theie 
to  try  to  save  from  destruction,  and  upon  the  faithful  old  servants 
that  seemed  so  confident  of  safety  in  her  presence,  and  who  were 
doing  everything  in  their  power  to  prove  their  gratitude  and 
sense  of  her  goodness,  she  could  not  repent  at  all.  If  the  act 
were  to  do  over  again,  she  would  do  it. 

After  tea  was-over,  Edith  came  out  and  sat  upon  the  porch, 
to  enjoy  the  coolness  and  quiet  of  the  summer  evening. 

The  old  people,  their  day's  work  finished,  came  and  sat  upon 
the  steps  near  her — they  seemed  to  hover  about  her  with  a  sense 
of  security,  as  if  she  had  been  their  guardian  angel,  or  some 
superior  being,  capable  of  protecting  them. 

The  sun  bad  set.  The  last  lingering  light  had  faded  from  the 
west.  There  was  no  moon  and  the  night  would  have  been  very 
dark  but  for  the  stars. 

Still,  everything  was  so  beautiful,  so  peaceful,  so  fresh  and 
pleasant  I  There  was  music  in  the  ripple  of  the  little  forest 
stream,  as  it  ran  along  singing  to  itself — music  in  the  shiver  of  the 
dewy  forest  leaves,  as  they  leaned,  whispering  sweet,  solemn 
mysteries  together — gladness  in  the  merry  chirp  of  insects  wak- 
ing to  enjoy  with  them  the  coolness  of  the  summer  night — com- 
fort and  trust  in  the  confidential  twitter  of  little  birds,  murmur- 
ing to  each  other  as  they  settled  in  their  nests.  All  nature 
reposed  or  enjoyed  itself,  under  the  protection  of  the  Great 
Father.  And  should  not  they?  All  things  had  faith — why  should 
they  doubt  alone  ?  And  as  the  night  advanced,  the  stars  came 
out  brighter  and  brighter.  Before  them,  in  the  south,  shone  the 
great  planet  Jupiter,  so  strong  as  almost  to  cast  a  shadow.  lie. 
stood  looking  down  like  the  warden  of  the  sky.  And  now, 
fr»  ra  the  forest,  came  a  cheerful  sound  above  all  other  sounds. 
It  was  the  hearty  call  of  the  whip-poor-will — the  solitary  bird 
that  sat  upon  a  branch  of  the  old  elm  in  the  thicket  near. 

"  I  like  the  voice  of  the  whip-poor-will,  don't  you  ?"  asketi 
Edith. 


4"2  THE.  MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Miss  Edy,  I  likes  everything  that  sonnds 
pleasant  to-night,"  replied  Jenny. 

"It  seems  so  cordial  and  confident." 

"  So  it  do,  Miss  Edy  I  Whip-poor-will ! — whip-poor-will !  do 
soon'  'cisely  like  'Keep-up-heart !'  'Kecp-up-hcart!'" 

"Who  ever  would  have  thought  yon  so  fanciful,  Jenny?" 

"Me!  Lor',  Miss  Edy,  don't  say  dat,  chile,  please.  I  never 
war  'cuse  o'  bein'  unsoun'  in  my  brain-pan  afore  in  all  my  days  1 
But  jes'  look  a  dar,  Miss  Edy,  at  dat  big  star  !  Don't  it  seem  like 
it  wer'  keepin'  watch  over  we-dem  ?  But,  Lor' !  Pm  not  afraid 

o'  nothin'!  'Deed,  me! Oh!  Lord  Marster  'Deemer!  what 

dat !"  she  broke  off,  in  a  sudden  panic,  as  a  crackling,  crashing 
sound,  and  a  rapid  rush,  came  from  the  thicket. 

"  Why,  it  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  Lion,  poor  fellow  1 
Here  he  comes !"  said  Edith,  as  a  great  black  Newfoundland 
dog  rushed  towards  them. 

"  I  thought  it  wur  a  British.  I  wonder  whar  dem  funnelly 
white  niggers  is  now,  an'  what  debiltry  der  up  to  !" 

"  Xcver  mind  them,  Jenny.  They  are  far  enough  from  here, 
probably.  I  do  not  think  it  possible  that  they  will  ever  pene- 
trate through  the  forest  to  this  secluded  spot,  or  ever  hear  that 
such  a  place  exists.  Besides,  look  around  you.  How  sweet  and 
calm  everything  is  here  !  The  little  birds  in  their  nests  fear  no 
coming  storm  or  stooping  hawk — the  tiny  insects  are  singing 
their  vesper  hymns  of  thanksgiving  in  perfect  sense  of  safety 
And  why  should  we  dread  our  foe  ?  Are  we  not  much  more  than 
they  ?  Is  not  their  Father  ours  ?  I  cannot  bring  my  reason  to 
acknowledge  that  any  scene  of  violence  could,  by  possibility,  be 
perpetrated  here.  Here  is  a  holiness  and  peacefulness  that 
seems  to  me  would  disarm  even  Cockburn's  ruthless  marauders !" 

"  Dat  what  you  'pend  upon,  Miss  Edy  ?  I  lib  in  de  hopes 
dat  'sperriment  'ill  nebber  be  tried !  But  I  ain't  afraid  1 
'Deed  me  /" 

Thus  the  mistress  and  maid  sat  and  talked,  to  keep  each 
other's  courage  up — the  one  asserting  that  there  was  no 
cUuig'.-r,  the  otho"  protesting  that  she  was  not  afraid — not  the  ! 


THE      FLIGHT.  43 

ret  starting  and  turning1  <rray  at  every  sound.  Old  Oliver  said 
little,  but  sat  upon  the  lowest  step  caressing  the  dog.  They 
gat  out  there  a  long  time,  for  there  was  a  sense  of  comparative 
freedom  and  safety  felt  by  all  out  there  in  the  open  air,  under 
the  kindly  stars,  and  among  the  other  children  of  nature — and 
there  was,  among  the  three,  an  unspoken,  unacknowledged  dread 
of  going  in  to  shut  themselves  up  in  the  great,  dark,  empty  house,. 

But  at  length  Edith  thought  it  right  and  proper,  and  she 
arose  to  dismiss  her  attendants. 

"  Oh  1  Miss  Edy  !  if  you  would  please — if  you  would  please 
to  let  we-dem  sleep  close  by  your  room  dis  ebenin'  1"  pleaded 
Jenny. 

"  Certainly,  if  that  will  make  your  sleep  the  quieter,"  smiled 
Edith.  "  You  may  bring  your  mattrass,  and  lay  it  down  by 
the  side  of  my  bed,  and  your  brother  Oliver  may  bring  his,  and 
lay  it  in  the  hall,  just  outside  of  my  door,  and  I  will  only  shut 
the  door,  not  fasten  it,  if  he  is — if  he  would  feel  like  he  was 
forsaken — locked  out." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  call  the  dogs,  and  lock  them  inside  the 
hall,  Miss  Edy  ?" 

"  Certainly  not — they  will  be  better  guardians  sleeping  on  the 
front  porch." 

These  arrangements  were  finally  concluded,  and  the  front 
door  was  locked  and  barred,  and  the  little  family  retired. 

Poor  Edith  !  No  sooner  did  she  find  herself  shut  within  the 
four  walls  of  her  chamber,  than  the  hope,  the  trust,  the  con- 
fidence, the  sense  of  safety,  she  had  felt  in  the  open  air,  began 
to  abandon  her — nor  was  she  reassured  by  the  words  of  Jenny, 
who  said — 

"  Seems  to  me,  Miss  Edy,  we-dem  was  better  off  out  doors. 
Seems — ef  it  ar  de  Lord's  will  we  is  to  be  killed — better  be 
shot  running  like  a  hare,  dan  be  murdered,  up  here  in  dis  close 
room,  like  a  mouse  in  a  trap  !" 

"  Say  your  prayers,  Jenny,  and  commit  yourself  to  the  care 
of  Providence.  Come  here,  and  kneel  down  by  me,  and  we'll 
pray  together — I  wish  I  had  thought  of  it  before  Oliver  bade 
us  good-night,  but  he  is  fast  asleep  now,  I  believe." 


44  T  II  y      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  'Deed  be !  Snoring  and  snorting  there  like  a  grampus  ! 
Little  'fence  he !  ef  de  house  was  attack,  de  soldiers  stumble 
right  ober  him,  an'  bust  open  your  door,  'out  eber  wakin'  of 
him !" 

"  There  is  '  an  eye  that  never  slumbers  nor  sleeps.'  We  will 
put  ourselves  under  God's  protection." 

Edith  kneeled  down  by  the  side  of  her  bed — Jenny  on  her 
right  hand — and  never  before  had  she  committed  herself  and 
hers  to  heaven,  with  so  much  earnestness.  Then  she  arose,  and 
gave  herself  into  the  hands  of  Jenny,  who  began  to  undress  her 
and  prepare  her  for  bed. 

"You  are  so  pale,  Miss  Edy  !     "Won't  you  take  something  ?'' 

"No — thank  you,  Jenny." 

"But  'deed  you  trembles  like  a  leaf,  chile!  Better  let  me 
get  you  some  sperrits  o'  lavender  confound." 

"  No,  Jenny,  no — I  am  a  little  nervous,  but  it  will  go  off. 
Reason  and  religion  both  convince  me  that  there  is  no  danger. 
Happen  what  will,  we  must  pass  through  it  safe.  We  have  put 
ourselves  under  the  care  of  that  Power  'whose  loving  kindness 
and  tender  mercies  are  over  all  His  works.'  We  must  remem- 
ber, and  trust  in  the  protecting  guardianship  of  Providence, 
Jenny." 

"  So  I  does,  honey — 'deed  does  I.  I'm  not  afraid,  nuther  1 
— 'deed  me!  Lord  !  Marster  in  heaven,  what's  dat !" 

"A  branch  of  the  old  elm,  blown  against  the  window,  Jenny, 
that's  all." 

"  I  made  sure  it  wur  dc  British !  But,  honey,  hadn't  we 
better  wake  up  brother  Oliver,  and  make  him  keep  watch  all 
night  ?" 

"  No — surely,  the  poor  old  man  could  not  keep  awake." 

"  Jes  as  you  say,  Miss  Edy.  Lord  Gemini !  did  you  hear  dat  ?" 

"  Yes — it  is  nothing  but  the  rats  in  the  wall — surely,  you 
kr.ow  that  sound." 

"  So  I  does,  oii'y  I'm  allus  lettin'  of  my  'stracted  thoughts 
run  on  to  clem  riporates." 

"There  !  say  your  prayers  over  again  to  yourself,  Jenny,  and 
go  to  sleep,  and  let  me  do  the  same." 


THE      FLIGHT.  4 

"  Sleep !     You  isn't  a-gwine  for  to  sleep,  Miss  Edy  ?" 

"Yes,  I  hope  so.  Good-night,"  said  Edith,  getting  into 
bed. 

"  But— You'll  let  the  light  burn,  Miss  Edy  ?" 

"  Yes  !  if  it  will  do  you  any  good.  There — good-night !" 
said  Edith,  addressing  herself  to  sleep. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  was  lost  in  slumber. 

And  then  she  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  voice  of  Jenny, 
calling — 

"  Miss  Edith !  Miss  Edith !  Oh !  for  de  Lord's  sake,  wake 
up !» 

"  What's  the  matter  !"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  starting  up 

"  Jes  listen  !  Jes  you  listen !  Listen  at  dat  der  noise  on 
t'other  side  o'  de  house !" 

Edith  listened. 

"  It  is  only  the  wind,  Jenny,  shaking  the  old  shutters,"  said 
Edith,  as  she  turned  over,  and  tried  to  calm  her  somewhat  ex- 
cited nerves  to  rest.  It  was  more  difficult  this  time.  But  at 
length  she  fell  into  a  disturbed  sleep,  from  which  she  was  agaiu 
quickly  startled  by  the  sound  of  Jenny's  voice,  crying — 

"Oh,  Miss  Edy!  Miss  Edy!  for  your  life! — for  your  pre- 
cious life,  jump  up  !" 

Again  the  poor  girl  sprang  up — bathed  in  a  cold  perspira 
4,ion,  and  quaking  with  terror. 

•''  What  is  it,  Jenny  ?     Oh !  Jenny,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  The  marowdies !  the  marowdies,  Miss  Edy !  Oh !  don't 
you  hear  them  tramping  all  around  the  house  ?" 

Edith  sprang  out  of  bed  and  went  to  a  window,  and  listened 
breathlessly.  The  snort  and  tramping  of  a  horse  somewhat 
reassured  her.  She  came  back,  saying, 

"  It  is  only  some  of  our  cattle,  Jenny — our  own  familiar  cowa 
and  horses,  that  have  strayed  into  the  yard." 

"  I  would  o'  swore  it  was  the  British  army  I"  said  the  old 
woman. 

"  Jenny,  you  really  must  govern  your  fears  and  quiet  your- 
eelf  I  You  have  so  harrassed  and  unnerved  me,  that  if  anything 
3 


46  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

should  really  happen,  I  am  unprepared  for  the  exigency — un- 
able to  protect  either  you  or  myself!" 

Old  Jenny  laid  down  and  sobbed  compunctiously — "I  can't 
help  of  it !  I  hopes  neber  to  see  sich  anoder  night  while  eber 
I  lib." 

Edith  returned  tp  bed,  and  addressed  herself  once  more  to 
sleep.  It  was  in  vain — her  nerves  were  fearfully  excited,  [n 
vain  she  tried  to  combat  her  terrors — they  completely  over- 
mastered her.  I)i  vain  she  recalled  her  own  resolutions  of  for- 
titude and  courage — in  vain  she  summoned  to  her  mind  the 
examples  of  all  the  heroic  women  of  history  ;  her  heart  seemed 
fainting  in  her  bosom  with  dread.  This  was  partly  to  be  at- 
tributed to  Edith's  delicate  constitution.  A  heroic  spirit  re- 
quires a  strong  physical  organization — or,  in  default  of  that,  a 
powerful  mental  excitement  to  corroborate  it.  Edith  had 
neither.  And  now  that  vivid  imagination  which  had  been  iu 
safety  her  greatest  delight,  now  in  peril  became  her  most  terri- 
ble scourge.  It  conjured  up  to  her  the  scenes  of  violence  of 
which  her  chamber  might  become  the  bloody  stage.  At  length 
she  was  driven  again  to  the  foot  of  God's  throne  for  mercy. 
She  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed. 

Ah  !  more  than  the  recollection  of  all  the  examples  of  all  the 
heroines  of  history,  did  this  prayer  calm  and  restore  the  per- 
turbed mind  of  Edith.  Repeating  it,  she  sank  into  a  deep,  re- 
freshing sleep,  of  several  hours. 

She  was  violently  shocked  out  of  it. 

Old  Jenny  stood  over  her,  lifting  her  up,  shaking  her,  and 
shouting  in  her  ears, 

"  Miss  Edith  !  Miss  Edith !  it  is  no  false  'larm  now  !  They 
are  here  !  they  are  here  I  We  shall  be  murdered  in  our  beds  I" 

Edith  was  wide  awake  in  an  instant — and  very  calm.  The 
effect  of  her  prayer  had  not  left  her. 

It  was  no  false  alarm  this  time. 

In  the  room  stood  old  Oliver,  gray  with  terror,  while  all  the 
dogs  on  the  premises  were  barking  madly,  and  a  noisy  party  at 
the  front  door  was  trying  to  force  an  entrance. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE      ATTACK 

"All  that  the  mind  would  shn'nk  from  of  excesses, 

All  that  the  body  perpetrates  of  bad, 
All  that  we  read,  hear,  dream  of  man's  distresses, 

All  that  the  devil  would  do  if  run  stark  mad, 

All  by  which  hell  is  peopled— or  as  sad 
As  that — mere  mortals  who  their  power  abuse, 
Was  here — as  heretofore  and  since — let  loose." — Byron. 

VIOLENT  knocking  and  shaking  at  the  outer  door  and  the 
Bound  of  voices. 

"  Open  !  open !  let  us  in !  for  God's  sake,  let  us  in  1" 

"  Those  are  fugitives — not  foes — listen — they  plead — they  do 
not  threaten — go  and  unbar  the  door,  Oliver,"  said  Edith. 

Reluctantly  and  cautiously  the  old  man  obeyed. 

"  Light  another  candle,  Jenny — that  is  dying  in  its  socket — 
it  will  be  out  in  a  minute." 

Trembling  all  over,  Jenny  essayed  to  do  as  she  was  bid,  but 
only  succeeded  in  putting  out  the  expiring  light.  The  sound 
of  the  unbarring  of  the  door  had  deprived  her  of  the  last  rem- 
nant of  self-control.  Edith  struck  a  light,  while  the  sound  of 
footsteps  and  voices  in  the  hall  warned  her  that  several  persons 
had  entered. 

"It's  Nell,  and  Liddy,  and  Sol,  from  Hay  Hill!  Oh,  Miss 
Edy !  Thorg  and  his  men  are  up  dar  a  'stroyin'  everything  ! 
Oh,  Miss  Edy !  an'  us  thought  it  was  so  safe  an'  out'n  de  way 
up  dar !  Oh,  what  a  'scape  1  what  a  'scape  we-dem  has  had  1" 

"  What !  do  I  hear  you  right  ?  Hay  Hill  attacked  !  Thorg 
there  !"  exclaimed  Edith.  Her  light  was  now  burning,  and  she 
looked  wildly  at  the  intruders.  "  Thorg  1  Thorg  at  Hay  Hill ! 
Impossible — !" 

"Yes,  Miss  Edith,  yes;  Thorg  cutting  and  slaying  and 
slashing  and  burning,  to  his  heart's  content." 

(47) 


48  1HE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Thorg  at  Hay  Hill !  Good  heaven  of  heavens  !  and  the 
family  ?  and  Fanny  ?  Merciful  God  I  Fanny  ?" 

The  three  fugitives  began  at  once,  in  a  wild  and  hurried  man- 
ner, to  tell  their  story. 

But  Nell,  with  a  wierd,  commanding  gesture,  arrested  the 
speech  of  the  others,  and  came  forward  herself  to  tell  the  tale. 

She  was  a  wild,  unearthly  figure,  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
ujd  glare  of  the  candle,  where  all  else  around  was  in  murky  ob- 
scurity— a  wierd  figure,  jet  black — thin  as  a  skeleton,  and  bent 
with  age.  A  scant,  red,  linsey  gown,  short  and  sleeveless,  ex- 
posed the  long,  skinny  arms  and  legs,  the  wizened  face  was 
fearfully  contrasted  with  the  protruded  and  glaring  eye-balls 
and  gleaming  fangs,  and  with  the  white,  woolly  hair,  around 
which  was  twisted  a  sanguine  red  handkerchief.  Her  abrupt 
and  angular  gestures,  her  glaring  eyes,  her  cat-like  bounds  and 
springs,  gave  a  supernatural  and  witch-like  aspect  to  the  most 
frightful  looking  old  hag  you  ever  saw. 

With  many  "starts  and  flaws,"  and  staring  of  the  wild  orbs, 
and  lifting  of  the  skinny  arm,  she  told  the  awful  story,  which — 
disentangled  from  her  wild  confusion  of  ideas — was  this  : 

"  That  about  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening  before,  the  family 
of  Colonel  Fairlie,  of  Hay  Hill,  were  assembled  in  the  parlor 
for  tea,  and  only  waiting  for  the  return  of  Mr.  Laurie,  the 
colonel's  son-in-law,  from  Charlotte  Hall,  to  sit  down  at  table, 
when  a  large  party  of  foragers,  under  Thorg,  rode  into  the 
yard,  dismounted,  and  entered  the  house,  which  they  proceeded 
to  sack.  No  resistance  was  made  by  the  feeble  household, 
where  resistance  would  have  been  madness,  as  it  would  have 
been  totally  ineffectual,  except  in  provoking  the  foe  to  greater 
violence.  Only  Colonel  Fairlie  endeavored  to  secure  the  safety 
of  his  daughter  by  flight  and  concealment.  He  seized  her 
qaickly,  and,  with  what  speed  age  could  make,  bore  her  off  to 
a,  neighboring  woods.  But  he  was  seen,  pursued,  overtaken, 
hi s  child  torn  from  his  protecting  bosom,  and  he  himself  put  to  the 
srord.  Half  an  hour  later  Mr.  Laurie  returned  to  find  his  home 
a  omoking  heap  of  ruins,  his  father-in-law  murdered,  and  his 


THE      ATTACK.  49 

bride,  half  an  idiot,  in  the  arms  of  a  rude  soldier.  To  draw 
his  pistol  and  shoot  the  man  dead  upon  the  spot  was  the  work 
of  a  second.  It  was  the  first  and  last  blood  Henry  Laurie  ever 
shed.  He  was  instantly  surrounded,  knocked  down  and  bayo- 
neted— absolutely  impaled — pinned  to  the  earth  by  the  pikes 
of  the  soldiers.  The  negroes  had  fled,  leaving  Fanny  in  the 
hands  of  the  drunken  and  demonized  soldiery. 

"  The  main  army  was  supposed  to  be  on  the  march  north- 
wards to  Washington  City.  It  was  more  than  probable  that 
they  had  overtaken  the  caravans  of  the  retreating  planters." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  effect  of  this  story  upon  Edith. 
HoiTor,  wonder,  despair,  seemed  to  confuse  and  paralyze  her 
mind. 

"  Go,"  she  said,  abstractedly,  mechanically.  "  Go,  Jenny,  take 
these  poor  creatures  into  the  kitchen,  and  do  what  you  can  for 
them.  I  must  consider  what  is  best  for  us  all." 

Jenny  and  Oliver  spoke  to  the  half-crazed  fugitives,  and  drew 
them  away  from  the  young  lady's  chamber. 

And,  left  alone,  Edith  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts — to  under- 
stand what  had  occurred,  and  to  prepare  for  what  might  be  to 
come. 

What  had  occurred  ? 

Hay  Hill,  thought  so  safe  in  its  obscurity  and  unimportance — 
Hay  Hill,  the  chosen  place  of  refuge  for  herself — Hay  Hill, 
attacked,  sacked  and  burnt  to  the  ground  1  The  gray-haired 
Colonel  Fairlie,  and  the  gallant  Harry  Laurie,  whom  she  had 
deemed  so  secure  in  their  wisdom  and  valor — both  massacred  ! 
The  beauteous  bride,  Fanny,  whose  exceeding  great  happiness 
was  lately  the  object  of  so  much  speculation,  wonder,  and  almost 
envy  to  Edith — left  to  a  fate  too  horrible  to  contemplate  !  Ah, 
Fanny !  she  had  been  the  sybil  and  soothsayer  in  all  the  little 
gatherings  of  young  people  at  her  father's  hospitable  house- 
often  prophecying  from  the  palmistry  she  practised  without 
believing — she  had,  with  mock  solemnity,  predicted  her  own  fate 
— her  life  short — her  death  sharp  and  sudden.  And  now,  now! 

It  was  strange  how  Edith  remembered  this  prediction — at- 


50  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 


tachcd  to  it — dependant  on  it — was  a  prophecy  that  concer 
herself.    But  she  could  not  think  of  self  now.     Her  whole  mind 
was  absorbed  with  the  thought  of  Fanny. 

It  was  necessary,  however,  to  arouse  herself,  to  do  something 
to  prepare  for  what  might  happen. 

And  what  was  likely  to  happen  ? 

Why,  that  ere  the  day  was  over  the  marauders  would  visit 
Luckenough. 

And  how  should  she  meet  them  ?  The  deep,  tragic  events 
occurring  around  her  had  exalted  Edith's  mind  above  the  thought 
of  self,  or  the  fear  of  death — there  was  but  one  thing  she  feared 
above  all  others,  to  share  Fanny's  fate,  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  licentious  soldiery.  And  this  she  resolved  to  forestall  by 
providing  herself  with  the  means  of  instant  death,  to  be  used  if 
the  occasion  demanded  it. 

This  having  been  determined  upon,  Edith's  mind  grew  calm. 

She  arose  and  opened  the  shutters  to  look  out  upon  the  night. 

It  was  no  longer  night  but  morning.  Day  was  dawning,  and 
the  east  was  tinged  with  the  flush  of  the  coming  sun. 

There  is  something  always  encouraging  in  the  dawn  of  day 
and  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Edith's  heavy  heart  grew  less  oppressed, 
its  gloomy  despair  stole  away  with  the  shadows  of  the  night — 
nothing  could  happen  to  herself  but  death,  and  death,  even  by 
her  own  hand,  did  not  seem  so  horrible  by  daylight  as  it  had 
seemed  in  the  murky  darkness  of  the  night.  Her  faith  in  God 
and  man — her  faith  in  her  own  moral  power — grew  strong.  She 
did  not  despair  of  saving  Luckenough  even  now,  even  from  such 
marauders  as  had  laid  waste  Hay  Hill  arid  massacred  its  house- 
hold. Edith  began  to  dress  herself  While  she  was  thus  occu- 
pied, Jenny  came  into  the  room,  bringing  a  cup  of  strong  coffee. 

"I  thought  I  would  bring  it  to  you  before  break'as',  Misa 
Edith,  seem'  how  you  was  broke  o'  your  res'  las'  night." 

"  Thank  you,  Jenny,"  said  Edith,  taking  the  cup  and  quailing 
its  contents,  "but  offer  some  to  those  poor  creatures  in  the 
kitchen.  They  are  more  in  need  of  it  than  I  am." 

"I  'tends  for  to  do  it,  Miss  Edith,  but  Cracked  Nell,  she's 
gone.  I  couldn't  'suadfs  her  to  stay  save  my  life." 


THEATTACK.  51 

"You  ought  to  have  stopped  her,  however,  poor  creature !  for 
where  could  she  go  when  every  place  is  infested  with  these 
soldiers  ?" 

"  'Coulda's  stop  her  for  the  soul  of  me,  Miss  Edith.  She's 
jes'  as  crazy  as  a  June-bug !  an'  de  more  you  'poses  sick  de  wus 
tley  gits!" 

"But  where  has  she  gone?  poor  maniac!" 

"  She  said  how  she  had  business  o'  'portance  soine'ers  else,  at 
Charlotte  Hall,  I  b'lieves,  an'  so  she  went." 

""Well,  poor  creature,  I  hope  her  wretched  life  will  be  safe. 
You  must  go  and  attend  to  the  others  now.  I  shall  not  want 
anything  more  just  yet." 

After  breakfast  was  over,  and  the  morning  work  hastily  dis- 
patched, Oliver  presented  himself  at  his  young  mistress'  bed- 
room door,  and  inquired  if  he  had  not  better  shut  up  and  bar 
all  the  doors  and  windows. 

"  No,  Oliver,  no !  there  is  not  a  door  or  window  here  that 
they  would  not  delight  to  break  open,  and  it  would  be  but  play 
for  them  to  do  it.  No,  we  will  not  tempt  and  excite  their  anger 
by  giving  them  anything  to  combat.  I  have  a  different  policy. 
There  are  powers  harder  to  overthrow  than  bars  and  bolts  of 
iron  and  doors  of  oak — the  spiritual  influences  that  surround 
home,  harmlessness,  peacefulness,  non-resistance !  No,  Oliver, 
bar  and  bolt  no  doors  or  windows,  that  would  only  provoke  and 
accelerate  the  attack,  and  cause  the  ruin  of  our  homestead.  No, 
you  will  open  wide  the  doors  and  windows,  as  our  usual  custom 
is  in  summer  weather.  Let  nothing  be  changed  from  the  usual 
routine.  We  must  not  look  as  if  we  dreamed  of  outrage.  I 
shall  sit  here  in  the  hall.  Go  bring  my  work-stand  and  chair 
and  footstool  hither,  and  set  them  near  the  front  door." 

Oliver  did  so. 

"  Now  open  the  front  door  and  the  back  door,  and  prop  them 
open  to  let  the  breeze  blow  through  as  usual." 

Oliver  followed  the  directions  of  his  mistress,  and  then  stood, 
nat  in  hand,  to  receive  farther  orders,  while  Edith  seated  herself 
at  her  stand  and  began  to  arrange  her  sewing. 


52  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"Oliver,  "she  said,  "  here  is  a  little  pocket  pistol  that  belonged 
to  my  father.  I  kept  it  for  his  sake ;  it  may  do  me  good 
service  in  some  extreme  need ;  I  wish  you  would  look  and  tell 
me  if  it  is  in  good  order;"  and  she  took  the  elegant  little  toy 
of  death  from  her  stand  drawer,  and  handed  it  to  her  old  servant, 
lie  looked  at  it  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur. 

"It's  a  perfect  beauty,  Miss  Edith.  No,  honey,  nothing  Hall 
de  matter  of  dis  yer  pistol." 

"Have  you  any  powder  and  shot,  Oliver?" 

"Some  down  at  de  quarter,  honey." 

"  Go  and  get  it  then ;  I  want  you  to  load  that  pistol  for  me, 
and  show  me  how  to  use  it." 

Oliver  disappeared  to  do  his  mistress's  bidding.  He  cleaned 
the  little  weapon,  prepared  it  for  her  use,  loaded  and  brought 
it  to  her,  and  showed  her  how  to  fire  it  off.  He  loaded  and  she 
fired  it  several  times. 

"  There,  Oliver,  I  think  I  can  trust  myself  to  use  it  now. 
Now  load  it  well,  Oliver ;  put  in  a  small  bullet,  and  give  it  to  me.  ' 

Oliver  did  so,  and  Edith  took  the  pistol  and  placed  it  in  her 
work-stand  drawer. 

"  Now,  for  Marster's  sake,  Miss  Edy,  what  you  gwine  do  'long 
o'  dat  der  little  wiper-snake  ?"  inquired  Jenny,  with  a  shudder, 
as  she  entered  and  saw  the  transaction. 

"  Only  keep  it  by  me,  in  case  of  emergency,  Jenny.  But  I 
trust  to  have  no  occasion  for  its  use.  Jenny,  get  your  yarn, 
your  reel,  and  stool,  and  bring  them  here,  and  sit  down  with  me 
at  work.  And,  Oliver,  keep  about  the  front  door  here — not  on 
guard  but  at  work — get  your  wooden  rake  and  be  engaged  in  clear- 
ing up  the  dry  leaves  from  the  grass.  We  must  not  seem  as  if 
we  expected  a  foe,  or  thought  of  violence.  We  must  look  home- 
like, peaceful,  harmless,  non-resistant — doing  no  wrong  an  1 
expecting  none.  We  must  show  no  fear — make  no  opposition  ; 
and  then  I  feel  sure  that  though  they  may  rob  the  house,  they 
will  leave  it  and  its  furniture  uninjured,  and  ourselves  entirely 
unmolested.  This  is  the  best — the  only  thing  to  do.  For  if 
we  were  even  now  to  fly,  we  should  be  just  as  apt  as  not  to  fall 


THEATTACK.  53 

into  their  hands — and  if  we  should  attempt  to  resist  them,  or  to 
bar  their  entrance  here,  they  would  laugh  our  efforts  to  scorn, 
and  never  spare  us.  On  the  other  hand,  consider  a  party  of 
foraging  soldiers  coming  to  a  quiet  country-house,  and  finding 
only  a  young  woman  engaged  with  her  harmless  sewing — and 
her  two  old  servants  at  their  peaceable  domestic  work— they 
would  not  be  able  to  do  them  a  personal  wrong." 

"But  Thorg!  Miss  Edith!  if  Thorg  should  cornel"  said 
Jenny. 

"  Still,  if  you  follow  the  policy  I  have  pointed  out,  you  and 
Oliver  will  be  in  no  danger,  even  from  Thorg." 

"  But  you,  Miss  Edith  !  you!" 

"  I  have  my  remedy  at  hand." 

Cheered  and  fortified  by  Edith's  courage  and  constancy,  the. 
old  people  arranged  their  morning's  employment,  as  she  had 
directed. 

And  thus  the  forenoon  was  passed. 

Edith  sat  sewing  at  her  work-stand — her  heart  filled  with 
grief  for  the  fate  of  her  friend  Fanny  ;  with  misgiving  for  the 
safety  of  her  uncle's  retreating  caravan,  and  with  dread  of  what 
might,  the  next  hour,  befall  herself.  But  she  governed  and 
suppressed  these  forebodings,  whose  expression  would  only  do 
harm.  Her  outward  appearance  was  calm  and  brave,  and  sne 
spoke  only  to  encourage  and  fortify  her  two  attendants. 

Jenny  sat  near  her  mistress,  reeling  off  yarn.  And  Oliver, 
with  his  wooden  rake,  cleared  up  the  grass  of  the  lawn. 

Once  Edith  arose  from  her  work  to  go  into  her  own  room 
and  pray,  fur  the  failing  heart  to  receive  new  strength.  And 
those  few  moments  of  her  absence  were  fraught  with  fate  to 
Edith.  As  soon  as  she  had  disappeared  and  closed  her  cham- 
ber door  after  her,  Jenny  left  her  seat,  stepped  cautiously  to 
the  front  door,  and  beckoned  Oliver  silently  to  approach. 
Oliver  softly  dropped  his  rake,  and  came  stealing  up  the  steps 
of  the  portico. 

"  Oliver,  what  you  tink  Miss  Edy  want  long  o'  dat  fernal 
wiper-snake  of  a  little  pistol  you  loden  for  she  ?" 


54  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Why,  to  shoot  Thorg  with,  ef  how  he  should  come." 

"  What  afunnelly  fool  1  What  de  use  o'  she  shoot  he,  when 
der'd  be  twenty  or  thirty  at  his  back  to  wenge  him  ?  No,  taint 
to  shoot  no  Thorgs,  nor  no  sick — it's  jes'  to  shoot  site  herself, 
afore  she'll  fall  into  any  o'  der  funnelly  wicked  hands !" 

"  No  1  Lord  1  you  don't  tink  so  !  She  musn't  do  nuffin  'tall 
like  dat  der — 'case  allers  when  der's  life  der's  hopes  !"  said  the 
old  man,  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  crept  stealthily  to  the  stand- 
drawer  and  took  out  the  pistol. 

The  old  woman  sat  down  to  her  reel,  and  reeled  away  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

What  are  you  doing  with  that,  Oliver  ?"  asked  Edith,  un- 
suspiciously, as  she  re-entered  the  hall. 

"  Only  'suring  of  mysef  how  it's  all  right,  Miss  Edith,"  said 
the  old  man,  with  some  nervous  trepidation. 

"  And  is  it  all  right  ?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Edith,  thank  Marster !"  said  the  old  creature. 
"  with  the  sigh  of  a  great  deliverance,"  as  he  replaced  the  wea- 
pon in  the  stand-drawer,  and  turned  to  go  about  his  business. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  we  shall  have  occasion  to  use  it,  Oli- 
ver," said  Edith,  resuming  her  seat  and  her  work.  "  Where 
are  those  poor  souls  from  Hay  Hill  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  little 
pause,  remembering  the  fugitives  for  the  first  time  since 
breakfast. 

"  Soun'  asleep,  Miss  Edith,  down  at  my  quarter — 'deed  dey 
is,  chile,  gleepiu'  like  dead.  I  'spose  how  dey  was  fleein'  and 
'fendin  all  night  last,  an'  dey's  perf 'ly  'zausted." 


That  summer  day  was  so  holy  in  its  beauty,  so  bright,  so 
clear,  so  cool ;  that  rural  scene  was  so  soothing  in  its  influ- 
ences, so  calm,  so  Iresh,  so  harmonious ;  it  was  almost  impossi- 
ble to  associate  with  that  lovely  day  and  scene,  thoughts  of 
wrong  and  violence  and  cruelty.  So  felt  Edith  as  she  some- 
times lifted  her  eyes  from  her  work  to  the  beauty  and  glory  of 
nature  around  her.  And  if  now  her  heart  ached,  it  was  more 
with  grief  for  Famy's  fate  than  dread  of  her  own.  There. 


THE      ATTACK.  55 

comes,  borne  upon  the  breeze  that  lifts  her  dark  tresses,  and 
fans  her  pearly  cheeks,  the  music  of  many  rural  voices — of  rip- 
pling streams  and  rustling  leaves  and  twittering  birds  and 
humming  bees. 

But  mingled  with  these,  at  length,  there  comes  to  her  atten- 
tive ear  a  sound,  or  the  suspicion  of  a  sound,  of  distant  horse- 
hoofs  falling  upon  the  forest  leaves — it  draws  nearer — it  be- 
comes distinct — she  knows  it  now — it  is — it  is  a  troop  of  Bri- 
tish soldiers  approaching  the  house ! 

They  rode  in  a  totally  undisciplined  and  disorderly  manner; 
reeling  in  their  saddles,  drunken  with  debauchery,  red-hot, 
reeking  from  some  scene  of  fire  and  blood  1 

And  in  no  condition  to  be  operated  upon  by  Edith's  beauti- 
ful and  holy  influences. 

They  galloped  into  the  yard — they  galloped  up  to  the  house 
— their  leader  threw  himself  heavily  from  his  horse  and  ad- 
vanced to  the  door. 

It  was  the  terrible  and  remorseless  Thorg  I  No  one  could 
doubt  the  identity  for  a  single  instant.  The  low,  square-built, 
thick-set  body,  the  huge  head,  the  bull  neck,  heavy  jowl,  coarse 
sensual  lips,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  fiery  visage,  surrounded  with 
coarse  red  hair, — the  whole  brutalized,  demonized  aspect  could 
belong  to  no  monster  in  the  universe  but  that  cross  between 
the  fiend  and  the  beast  called  THORG!  And  now  he  came, 
intoxicated,  inflamed,  burning  with  fierce  passions  from  some 
fell  scene  of  recent  violence ! 

Pale  as  death,  and  nearly  as  calm,  Edith  awaited  his  coming. 
She  could  not  hope  to  influence  this  man  or  his  associates 
She  knew  her  fate  now — it  was  death ! — death  by  her  own 
hand,  before  that  man's  foot  should  profane  her  threshold ! 
She  knew  her  fate,  and  knowing  it,  grew  calm  and  strong. 
There  were  no  more  hopes  or  fears  or  doubts  or  trepidations. 
Over  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  the  spirit  ruled  victorious,  and 
Edith  stood  revealed  to  herself  richly  endowed  with  that  he- 
roism she  had  so  worshipped  in  others — in  that  supreme  mo- 
ment mistress  of  herself  and  of  her  fate.  To  die  by  her  own 


56  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

hand !  but  not  rashly — not  till  a  trial  should  be  made — not  till 
the  last  moment.  And  how  beautiful  in  this  last  fateful  moment 
she  looked  1  The  death  pallor  had  passed  from  her  counte- 
nance— the  summer  breeze  was  lifting  the  light  black  curls — 
soft  shadows  were  playing  upon  the  pearly  brow — a  strange 
elevation  irradiated  her  face,  and  it  "  shone  as  it  had  been  the 
face  of  an  angel." 

"  By  George  I  boys,  what  a  pretty  wench ! — Keep  back,  you 
d d  rascals !"  (for  the  men  nad  dismounted  and  were  press- 
ing behind  him,)  "  keep  back,  I  say,  you  drunken 1  Let 

rank  have  precedence  in  love  as  in  other  things !  Your  turn 
may  come  afterwards  1  Ho  I  pretty  mistress,  has  your  larder 
the  material  to  supply  my  men  with  a  meal  ?" 

Edith  glanced  around  for  her  attendants.  Jenny  lay  upon 
the  hall  floor,  fallen  forward  upon  her  face,  in  a  deep  swoon. 
Oliver  stood  out  upon  tire  lawn,  his  teeth  chattering,  and  his 
knees  knocking  together  with  terror,  yet  faintly  meditating  a 
desperate  onslaught  to  the  rescue  with  his  wooden  rake. 

"No  matter  1"  for  first  of  all  we  must  have  a  taste  of  those 
dainty  lips  ;  stand  back,  bl — t  you,"  he  vociferated  with  a  vol- 
ley of  appalling  oaths,  that  sent  the  disorderly  men,  who  were 
again  crowding  behind  him,  back  into  the  rear ;  "  we  would  be 
alone,  d you  ;  do  you  hear  ?" 

The  drunken  soldiers  fell  back,  and  he  advanced  towards 
Edith,  who  stood  calm  in  desperate  resolution.  She  raised  her 
hand  to  supplicate  or  waive  him  off,  he  did  not  care  which — her 
other  hand,  hanging  down  by  her  side,  grasped  the  pistol,  which 
she  concealed  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

"  Hear  me,"  she  said,  "  one  moment,  I  beseech  you  I" 

The  miscreant  paused. 

"  Proceed,  my  beauty!  Only  don't  let  the  grace  before  meat 
be  too  long." 

•'  I  am  a  soldier's  child,"  said  Edith ;  her  sweet,  clear  vohe 
slightly  quavering  like  the  strings  of  a  lute  over  which  the  wind 
has  passed  ;  "  I  am  a  soldier's  child — my  father  died  gallantly 
on  the  field  of  battle.  You  are  soldiers,  and  will  not  hurt  u 
poldifr's  orphnn  d 


THE      ATTACK.  57 

"  Not  for  the  universe,  my  angel ;  bl — t  'em  !  let  any  of  'em 
hurt  a  hair  of  your  head !  I  only  want  to  love  you  a  little,  my 
beauty  1  that's  all ! — only  want  to  pet  you  to  your  heart's  con- 
tent ;"  and  the  brute  made  a  step  towards  her. 

"  Hear  me  !"  exclaimed  Edith,  raising  her  hand. 

"  Well,  well,  go  on,  my  dear,  only  don't  be  too  long — for  my 
men  want  something  to  eat  and  drink,  and  I  have  sworn  not  to 
break  my  fast  until  I  know  the  flavor  of  those  ripe  lips." 

Edith's  fingers  closed  convulsively  upon  the  pistol  still  held 
hidden. 

"  I  am  alone  and  defenceless,"  she  said  ;  "I  remained  here, 
voluntarily,  to  protect  our  home,  because  I  had  faith  in  the  bet- 
ter feelings  of  men  when  they  should  be  appealed  to.  I  had 
heard  dreadful  tales  of  the  ravages  of  the  enemy  through  neigh- 
boring sections  of  the  country.  I  did  not  fully  believe  them. 
I  thought  them  the  exaggerations  of  terror,  and  knew  how  such 
stories  grow  in  the  telling.  I  could  not  credit  the  worst,  be- 
lieving, as  I  did,  the  British  nation  to  be  an  upright  and  honor- 
able enemy — British  soldiers  to  be  men — and  British  officers 
gentlemen.  Sir,  have  I  trusted  in  vain  ?  Will  you  not  let  me 
and  my  old  servants  retire  in  peace  ?  All  that  the  cellars  and 
storehouses  of  Luckenough  contain,  is  at  your  disposal.  You 
will  leave  myself  and  attendants  unmolested.  I  have  not 
trusted  in  the  honor  of  British  soldiers  to  my  own  destruction  !" 

"A  pretty  speech,  my  dear,  and  prettily  spoken — but  not 
half  so  persuasive  as  the  sweet  wench  that  uttered  it,"  said 
Thorg,  springing  towards  her. 

Edith  suddenly  raised  the  pistol — an  expression  of  deadly 
determination  upon  her  face. 

Thorg  as  suddenly  fell  back.  He  was  an  abominable  coward 
in  addition  to  his  other  qualities. 

"  Seize  that  girl!  seize  and  disarm  her!  What  mean  you, 
rascals  ?  are  you  to  be  foiled  by  a  girl  ?  Seize  and  disarm  her, 
I  say  !  are  you  men  ?" 

Yes,  they  were  men,  and  therefore,  drunken  and  brutal  as 
they  were,  they  hesitated  to  close  upon  one  helpless  girl. 


58  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  H — 1  fire  and  furies !  surround  !  disarm  her,  I  say  1"  vo- 
ciferated Thorg. 

Edith  stood,  her  hand  still  grasping  the  pistol — her  other 
one  raise  I  in  desperate  entreaty. 

"  Oh  J  one  moment !  for  heaven's  sake,  one  moment !  still 
hear  me  !  I  would  not  have  fired  upon  your  captain !  Nor 
would  I  fire  upon  one  of  you,  who  close  upon  me  only  at  your 
captain's  order.  There  is  something  within  me  that  shrinks 
from  taking  life !  even  the  life  of  an  enemy — any  life  but  my 
own,  and  that  only  in  such  a  desperate  strait  as  this.  Oh  !  by 
the  mercy  that  is  in  my  own  heart,  show  mercy  to  me!  You 
are  men !  you  have  mothers,  or  sisters,  or  wives,  at  home,  whom 
you  hope  to  meet  again,  when  war  and  its  insanities  are  over. 
Oh !  for  their  sakes,  show  mercy  to  the  defenceless  girl  who 
stands  here  in  your  power !  Do  not  compel  her  to  shed  her  own 
blood  !  for,  sure  as  you  advance  one  step  towards  me,  I  pull 
this  trigger,  and  fall  dead  at  your  feet."  And  Edith  raised  the 
pistol  and  placed  the  muzzle  to  her  own  temple — her  finger 
against  the  trigger. 

The  men  stood  still — the  captain  swore. 

"  H — 1  fire  and  flames  !  do  you  intend  to  stand  there  all  day, 
to  hear  the  wench  declaim  ?  Seize  her,  curse  you  1  wrench  that 
weapon  from  her  hand." 

"Not  so  quick  as  I  can  pull  the  trigger!"  said  Edith — her 
eyes  blazing  with  the  sense  of  having  fate — the  worst  of  fate  in 
her  own  hands  ;  it  was  but  a  pressure  of  the  finger,  to  be  made 
quick  as  lightning,  and  she  was  beyond  their  power  !  her  finger 
was  on  the  trigger — the  muzzle  of  the  pistol,  a  cold  ring  of 
steel  pressed  her  burning  temple  !  she  felt  it  kindly — protective 
as  a  friend's  kiss  ! 

"  Seize  her  !  Seize  her,  curse  you !"  cried  the  brutal  Thorg, 
"  what  care  /whether  she  pull  the  trigger  or  not  ?  Before  the 
blood  cools  in  her  body,  I  will  have  had  my  satisfaction  !  Seize 
her,  you  infernal — " 

"  Captain,  countermand  your  order  !  I  leg,  I  entreat  you, 
countermand  your  crder!  You  yourself  will  greatly  regret 


THE      ATT  A  OK.  59 

baring  given  it,  when  you  are  calmer,"  said  a  young  officer, 
riding  hastily  forward,  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  taking  a  part 
in  the  scene. 

An  honorable  youth  in  a  band  of  licensed  military  ma- 
rauders ! 

"  'Sdeath,  sir !  don't  interfere  with  me!    Seize  her,  rascals!" 

"  One  step  more,  and  I  pull  the  trigger !"  said  Edith. 

"  Captain  Thorg  1  This  must  not  be  !"  persisted  the  young 
officer. 

"D — n,  sir!  do  you  oppose  me?  do  yon  dare?  Fall  back; 
sir,  I  command  you  !  Scoundrels  !  close  upon  that  wench  and 
bind  her !" 

"  Captain  Thorg  !  This  SHALL  NOT  be  ?  Do  you  hear  ? 
Do  you  understand !  I  say  this  violence  SHALL  NOT  be  per- 
petrated !"  said  the  young  officer,  firmly. 

"  D — n,  sir !  Are  you  drunk,  or  mad  ?  You  are  under 
arrest,  sir  !  Corporal  Truman,  take  Ensign  Shield's  sword !" 

The  young  man  was  quickly  disarmed,  and  once  more  the 
captain  vociferated. 

"Knock  down  and  disarm  that  vixen!  Obey  your  orders, 
villains  !  Or  by  h — 1,  and  all  its  fiends,  I'll  have  you  all  court- 
martialed,  and  shot  before  to-morrow  noon !" 

The  soldiers  closed  around  the  unprotected  girl. 

"  Lord,  all  merciful !  forgive  my  sins,"  she  prayed,  and  with 
a  firm  band  pulled  the  trigger  ! 

It  did  not  respond  to  her  touch — it  failed  I  it  failed  ! 

Casting  the  traitorous  weapon  from  her,  she  sunk  upon  her 
knees,  murmuring, 

"Lost — lost — all  is  lost!"  remained  crushed,  overwhelmed^ 
awaiting  her  fate ! 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  as  pretty  a  little  make-believe  as  ever  I  saw!" 
laughed  the  brutal  Thorg,  now  perfectly  at  his  ease,  and  gloat- 
ing over  her  beauty,  and  helplessness,  and  deadly  terror.  "As 
pretty  a  little  sham  as  ever  I  saw !" 

"It  was  no  sham!  She  couldn't  sham!  I  drawed  out  the 
shot  unbeknownst  to  her  I  I  wish,  I  does,  my  fingers  had 


60  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

shriveled  and  dropped  off  afore  they  ever  did  it !"  exclaimed 
Oliver,  in  a  passion  of  remorse,  as  he  ran  forward,  rake  in  hand, 

He  was  quickly  thrown  down  and  disarmed — no  one  had  any 
hesitation  in  dealing  with  Jam. 

"Now  then,  my  fair  !"  said  Thorg,  moving  towards  his  victim. 

Edith  was  now  wild  with  desperation — her  eyes  flew  wildly 
around  in  search  of  help,  where  help  there  seemed  none.  Then 
ghe  turned  with  the  frenzied  impulse  of  flying. 

But  the  men  surrounded  to  cut  off  her  retreat. 

"Xay,  nay,  let  her  run  !  let  her  run  !  give  her  a  fair  start, 
and  do  you  give  chase !  It  will  be  the  rarest  sport !  Fox- 
hunting is  a  good  thing,  but  girl-chasing  must  be  the  very  h — 1 
of  sport,  when  I  tell  you — mind,  /  tell  you,  men — she  shall  be 
the  exclusive  prize  of  him  who  catches  her !"  swore  the  re- 
morseless Thorg. 

Edith  had  gained  the  back  door. 

They  started  in  pursuit. 

"Now,  by  the  living  Lord  that  made  me,  the  first  man  that 
lays  hands  on  her  shall  die !"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  young  en- 
sign, wresting  his  sword  from  the  hand  of  the  corporal,  spring- 
ing between  Edith  and  her  pursuers,  flashing  out  the  blade,  and 
brandishing  it  in  the  faces  of  the  foremost. 

lie  was  but  a  stripling,  scarcely  older  than  Edith's  self — the 
arm  that  wielded  that  slender  blade  scarcely  stronger  than 
Edith's  own — but  the  fire  that  flashed  from  the  eagle  eye  showed 
a  spirit  to  rescue  or  die  in  her  defence. 

Thorg  threw  himself  into  the  most  frantic  fury — a  volley  of 
the  most  horrible  oaths  was  discharged  from  his  lips. 

"  Upon  that  villain,  men  !  beat  him  down  !  slay  him  1  pin  him 
to  the  ground  with  your  bayonets  !  And  then  !  do  your  will 
with  the  girl !" 

But  before  this  fiendish  order  could  be  executed,  aye,  before 
it  was  half  spoken,  whirled  into  the  yard  a  body  of  about  thirty 
horsemen,  galloping  fiercely  to  the  rescue  with  drawn  swords 
and  shouting  voices. 

They  were  nearly  three  times  the  number  of  the  foraging 
soldiers. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

YOUNG      AMERICA       IN       1814. 

«  And  in  they  burst!  and  on  they  rushed  I 

While  like  a  guiding  star, 
Amid  the  thickest  carnage  blazed 
The  helmet  of  Navarre." — Battle  of  Jvry. 

— TOUXG  students  of  C Academy — mere  boys  of  from 

thirteen  to  eighteen  years  of  age,  but  brave,  spirited,  vigorous 
lads,  well  mounted,  well  armed,  and  led  on  by  the  redoubtable 
college  hero,  Cloudesley  Moruington.  They  rushed  forward, 
they  surrounded,  they  fell  upon  the  marauders  with  an  absolute 
shower  of  blows. 

"  Give  it  to  them,  men  !  This  for  Fanny  1  TJiis  for  Edith  ! 
And  this !  and  this !  and  this  for  both  of  them !"  shouted 
Cloudesley,  as  he  vigorously  laid  about  him.  "  Strike  for  Hay 
Hill  and  vengeance  !  Let  them  have  it,  my  men  !  And  you, 
little  fellows !  small  young  gentlemen,  with  the  souls  of  heroes, 
and  the  bodies  of  elves,  who  can't  strike  a  very  hard  blow,  aim 
where  your  blows  will  tell !  aim  at  their  faces.  This  for  Fanny ! 
This  for  Edith  !"  shouted  Cloudesley,  raining  his  strokes  right 
and  left,  but  never  at  random. 

He  fought  his  way  through  to  the  miscreant  Thorg. 

Thorg  was  still  on  foot,  armed  with  a  sword,  and  laying  about 
him  savagely  among  the  crowd  of  foes  that  had  surrounded  him. 

Cloudesley  was  still  on  horseback — he  had  caught  up  an  axe 
that  lay  carelessly  upon  the  lawn,  and  now  he  rushed  upon 
Thorg  from  behind. 

He  had  no  scruple  in  taking  this  advantage  of  the  enemy — 
no  scruple  with  an  unscrupulous  monster — an  outlawed  wretch 
— a  wild  beast  to  be  destroyed,  when  and  where  and  how  it  was 
possible  ! 

And  so  Cloudesley  came  on  behind,  and  elevating  this  for- 
4  r'fil) 


62  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

midable  weapon  in  both  hands,  raising  himself  in  his  stirrups, 
and  throwing  his  whole  weight  with  the  stroke,  he  dealt  a  blow 
npon  the  head  of  Thorg  that  brought  him  to  the  earth  stunned, 
perhaps  dead.  From  the  impetus  Cloudesley  himself  had  re- 
ceived, he  had  nearly  lost  his  saddle,  but  had  recovered. 

"  They  fly  1  They  fly  1  By  the  bones  of  Caesar,  the  miscre- 
ants fly  !  after  them,  my  men  1  after  them  !  Pursue  !  pursue  !" 
shouted  Cloudesley,  wheeling  his  horse  around  to  follow. 

But  just  then,  the  young  British  officer  standing  near  Edith, 
resting  on  his  sword,  breathing,  as  it  were,  after  a  severe  conflict, 
caught  Cloudesley's  eyes.  Intoxicated  with  victory,  Cloudesley 
sprang  from  his  horse,  and  raising  his  axe,  rushed  up  the  stairs 
upon  the  youth ! 

Edith  sprang  and  threw  herself  before  the  stripling,  impul- 
sively clasping  her  arms  around  him  to  shield  him,  and  thec 
throwing  up  one  arm  to  ward  off  a  blow,  looked  up  and  ox- 
claimed, 

"He  is  my  preserver — my  preserver,  Cloudesley!" 

And  what  did  the  young  ensign  do  ?  Clasped  Edith  quietly 
but  closely  to  his  breast. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  beautiful  picture ! 

Nay,  any  one  might  understand  how  it  was — that  not  years 
npcn  years  of  ordinary  acquaintance  could  have  so  drawn,  so 
knitted  these  young  hearts  together  as  those  few  hours  of  su- 
preme danger. 

" My  preserver,  Cloudesley!     My  preserver!" 

Cloudesley  grounded  his  axe. 

"I  don't  understand  that,  Edith  !     He  is  a  British  officer." 

"  He  is  my  deliverer !  When  Thorg  set  his  men  on  me  to 
hunt  me,  he  cast  himself  before  me,  and  kept  them  at  bay  until 
you  came !" 

"Mutinied  1"  exclaimed  Cloudesley,  in  astonishment,  and  a 
sort  of  horror. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  mutiny,"  said  the  young  ensign, 
speaking  for  the  first  time,  and  blushing  as  he  withdrew  his  arm 
from  Edith's  waist. 


YOUNG      AMERICA      IN      1814.  63 

"  "Whe-ew  !  here's  a  go  !"  Clondesley  was  about  to  exclaim, 
but  remembering  himself  he  amended  his  phraseology-,  and  said, 
"A  very  embarrassing  situation,  yours,  sir." 

"  I  can  NOT  reget  it !" 

"  Certainly  not !  There  are  laws  of  God  and  humanity  above 
all  military  law,  and  such  you  obeyed,  sir !  I  thank  you  on  the 
part  of  my  young  countrywoman,"  said  Cloudesley,  who  ima- 
gined that  he  could  talk  about  as  well  as  he  could  fight. 

"If  the  occasion  could  recur,  I  would  do  it  again!  Yes,  a 
thousand  times  1"  the  young  man's  eyes  added  to  Edith — only  to 
her. 

"  But  oh  !  perdition !  while  I  am  talking  here  that  serpent ! 
that  copperhead !  that  cobra  capella !  is  coming  round  again ! 
How  astonishingly  tenacious  of  life  all  foul,  venomous  creatures 
are !"  exclaimed  Cloudesley,  as  he  happened  to  espy  Thorg 
moving  slightly  where  he  lay,  and  rushed  out  to  despatch  him. 

The  other  two  young  people  were  left  alone  in  the  hall. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  placed  yourself  in  a  very,  very  dan- 
gerous situation,  by  what  you  did  to  save  me." 

"  But  do  you  know — oh,  do  you  know  how  happy  it  has  made 
me  ?  Can  you  divine  how  my  heart — yes,  my  soul — burns  with 
the  joy  it  has  given  me  ?  When  I  saw  you  standing  there  be- 
fore your  enemies  so  beautiful !  so  calm  I  so  constant — I  felt 
that  I  could  die  for  you — that  I  would  die  for  you.  And  when 
I  Oprang  between  you  and  your  pursuers,  I  had  resolved  to  die 
for  you.  But  first  to  set  your  soul  free.  Edith,  yon  should  not 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  soldiers  !  Yes  !  I  had  deter- 
mined to  die  for  and  with  you  !  You  are  safe.  And  whatever 
befals  me,  Edith,  will  you  remember  that?" 

"  You  are  faint  1  you  are  wounded  !  indeed  you  are  wounded  I 
Oh  !  where  !  Oh  !  did  any  of  our  people  strike  you  ?" 

"  No — it  was  one  of  our  men,  Edith  !  I  do  not  know  you-' 
other  name,  sweet  lady  !" 

"  Never  mind  my  name — it  is  Edith — that  will  do  ;  but  your 
wound — your  wound — oh  1  you  are  very  pale — here  !  lay  down 
upon  this  settee.  Oh,  it  is  too  hard  ! — come  into  my  room,  it 


64  TEE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

opens  here  upon  the  hall — there  is  a  comfortable  lounge  there, 
come  in  and  lie  down — let  me  get  you  something  ?" 

"  Thanks — thanks,  dearest  lady,  but  I  must  get  upon  my 
horse  and  go  !" 

"Go?" 

"Yes,  Edith — don't  you  understand,  that  after  what  I  have 
do ii".—  after  what  I  have  had  the  joy  of  doing — the  only  honor- 
able course  left  open  to  me,  is  to  go  and  give  myself  up  to 
aus\ver  the  charges  that  may  be  brought  against  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  Heaven !  I  know !  I  know  what  you  have  incurred  by 
defending  me !  I  know  the  awful  penalty  laid  upon  a  military 
officer  who  lifts  his  hand  against  his  superior.  Don't  go !  oh, 
don't  go !" 

"And  do  you  really  take  so  much  interest  in  my  fate,  sweetest 
lady  ?"  said  the  youth,  gazing  at  her  with  the  deepest  and  most 
delightful  emotions. 

" 'Take  an  interest'  in  my  generous  protector!  How  should 
I  help  it  ?  Oh !  don't  go  1  Don't  think  of  going.  You  will 
not — will  you  ?  Say  that  you  will  not !" 

"  You  would  not  advise  me  to  anything  dishonorable,  I  am 
sure." 

"  No — no — but  oh  !  at  such  a  fearful  cost  you  have  saved  me. 
Oh !  when  I  think  of  it,  I  wish  you  had  not  interfered  to  defend 
me.  I  wish  it  had  not  been  done  !" 

"  And  /would  not  for  the  whole  world  that  it  had  not  been 
done !  Do  not  fear  for  me,  sweetest  Edith  1  I  run  little  risk 
in  voluntarily  placing  myself  in  the  hands  of  a  court-martial — 
for  British  officers  are  gentlemen,  Edith  ! — you  must  not  judge 
them  by  those  you  have  seen — and  when  they  hear  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  have  little  doubt  that  my  act  will  be  justified — • 
besides,  my  fate  will  rest  with  Ross,  General  Ross — one  of  the 
most  gallant  and  noble  spirits  ever  created,  Edith  1  And  now 
you  must  let  me  go,  fairest  lady."  And  he  raised  her  band 
respectfully  to  his  lips,  bowed  reverently,  and  left  the  hall  to  find 
his  horse. 

In  the  meantime  Cloudesley  Mornington   had  gone  out  to 


YOUNG      AMERICA      IX      1814.  65 

despatch  Thorg  if  needful.  But  when  he  reached  the  Bide  of 
his  fallen  foe,  the  body  lay  so  still  that  Cloudesley  believed  it 
dead.  He  did  not  like  to  strike  a  corpse — but  to  kill  Thorg — 
to  make  sure  of  his  death,  Cloudesley  was  resolved — he  thoujrht 
it  his  duty — he  felt  it  his  duty — just  as  men  feel  it  incumbent 
upon  them  to  slay  any  cruel  beast  of  prey  fallen  into  their  power. 
So  Cloudesley  stood  over  the  monster,  with  his  weapon  raised, 
watching  with  some  curiosity  and  interest  for  some  sign  of  life 
and  recovery  that  should  invite  the  descending  blow.  He  had 
watched  some  minutes — occasionally  pushing  the  body  with  his 
foot,  and  scrutinizing  the  brutal  and  ferocious  face  with  some- 
thing of  a  physiognomist's  interest,  when  the  monster  suddenly 
made  a  great  spasmodic  heave  and  plunge — settled  himself  still 
again  and  opened  his  eyes. 

In  an  instant  Cloudesley's  foot  was  planted  on  his  chest,  and 
the  point  of  his  sword  placed  against  his  throat. 

"  I  believed  that  you  were  dead  or  you  never  would  have 
opened  your  eyes  again  !  Say  your  prayers  I  Make  your  peace 
with  Heaven,  for  your  hour  has  come  !" 

The  miscreant  attempted  to  struggle — feebly,  stupidly,  in- 
effectually, for  he  was  half  dead,  and  the  pressure  of  the  point  of 
that  sword  against  his  throat  was  dangerous,  might  be  instantly 
fatal,  and  it  warned  him  to  be  still. 

"  Say  your  prayers  !  Make  your  peace  with  Heaven  if  you 
can,  for  in  five  minutes  your  soul  will  be  in  eternity !" 

"Cloudesley!  Clondesley!" 

The  young  man  raised  his  eyes  to  see  Edith  standing  opposite 
to  him. 

"  Cloudesley !  Spare  that  man !  Do  not  send  his  soul  to  God 
with  such  a  load  of  sin  upon  it!" 

"Go  into  the  house,  dearest  Edith  !" 

"  No,  not  yet  I  I  dare  not,  Cloudesley !  spare  that  man !  Do 
not  kill  a  fallen,  helpless  foe,  for  see,  he  scarcely  breathes  now  1" 

"Edith  Lance!  will  you  retire,  or  do  you  prefer  to  remain 
here  and  witness  an  execution  ?" 

"  You  must  not  shed  blood,  Cloudesley  1    You  must  not  stain 


66  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

your  young,  pure,  innocenj  hand  with  blood !  For  your  own 
sake,  spare  him !" 

"Miss  Lance,  if  you  do  not  leave  this,  you  will  speedily  see  a 
thing  done  that  will  haunt  you  all  the  nights  of  your  life  !" 

"A  murder!  Yes,  Cloudesley,  call  it  by  its  right  name !  But 
you  will  not  do  such  a  deed  before  my  eyes,  and  I  may  say  upon 
my  very  threshold  1  You  will  not,  Cloudesley !  If  you  will  not 
spare  him  for  his  sake  nor  for  your  own  sake,  Cloudesley !  spare 
him  for  mine,  for  Edith's.  I  thank  God  that  in  this  fray  no 
one  has  been  killed  on  either  side.  I  thank  God  that  the  soil 
of  our  home  is  still  pure  from  the  stain  of  blood  !  Oh,  Cloudes- 
ley !  for  my  sake,  for  nature's  sake — yea!  for  God's!  do  not 
pollute  this  spot  with  blood  !  Do  not  spoil  its  beautiful  charm 
— do  not  make  it  hideous  and  loathsome  in  my  sight !  Oh  ! 
Cloudesley,  if  you  should  do  this  deed  here — oh  !  Cloudesley ! 
I  should  never,  never  enjoy  peace  of  mind  again !  I  should 
never,  never  be  able  to  endure  my  home,  or  even  to  look  upon 
your  face  again  with  pleasure,  Cloudesley !  Do  not  give  me  so 
much  misery  then !" 

"  Edith !  I  hunger  and  thirst !  I  pant  and  gasp  for  this  demon's 
life!" 

"But  yet,  for  my  sake,  you  will  spare  him — the  Lord  bless 
you,  Cloudesley !" 

"Edith!  Do  yon  know,  'it  hath  been  said  of  them  of  old 
time,'  that  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  come  between  the  criminal 
and  his  just  retribution  ?  Edith  !  it  hath  been  said  that  whoso 
intercepteth  such  a  righteous  retribution,  receiveth  it  upon  his 
own  head,  even  as  the  object  that  passes  between  the  thunderbolt 
and  its  aim,  is  shattered  to  destruction.  Edith !  I  feel  strangely 
impelled  to  warn  you  if  you  interfere  to  save  this  man,  he  will  be 
in  some  way  fatal  to  you  !" 

" I  accept  the  risk !  I  accept  it!  Yes !  I  come  between  the 
criminal  and  his  doom  rather  than  have  a  plague  spot  on  my 
soul  or  on  yours  !  I  intercept  the  thunderbolt  rather  than  that 
there  should  be  one  blasted  spot  such  as  blood  would  make — 
upon  this  sweet  green  sward  1" 


YOUNG      AMERICA      IN      1814.  67 

Gloudeslsy  sheathed  his  sword  and  removed  Ms  foot  from  the 
chest  of  the  wounded  man. 

Just  then  the  young  ensign  was  seen  approaching  leading  his 
horse,  but  looking  frightfully  ill,  and  walking  with  pain  and 
difficulty. 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  us,  sir?"  asked  Cloudesley. 

"I  am  under  the  necessity  of  doing  so." 

"But  you  are  not  able  to  travel — you  can  scarcely  sit  your 
horse.  Pray  do  not  think  of  leaving  us." 

"  You  are  a  soldier — at  least  an  amateur  one,  and  you  will 
understand  that  after  what  has  occurred,  I  must  not  seem  to 
hide  myself  like  a  fugitive  from  justice  !  In  short,  I  must  go 
and  answer  for  that  which  I  have  done." 

"  I  understand,  but  really,  sir,  you  look  very  ill — you — " 

But  here  the  young  officer  held  out  his  hand  smilingly,  took 
leave  of  Cloudesley,  and  bowing  low  to  Edith,  rode  off. 

Cloudesley  and  Edith  followed  the  gallant  fellow  with  their 
eyes.  He  had  nearly  reached  the  gate,  the  old  green  gate  at 
the  farthest  end  of  the  semi-circular  avenue,  when  the  horse 
stopped,  the  rider  reeled  and  fell  from  his  saddle.  Cloudesley 
and  Edith  ran  towards  him — reached  him.  Cloudesley  disen- 
tangled his  foot  from  the  stirrup,  and  raised  him  in  his  arms. 
Edith  stood  pale  and  breathless  by. 

"  He  has  fainted !  I  knew  he  was  suffering  extreme  pain. 
Edith !  fly  and  get  some  water !  Or  rather  here  !  sit  down  and 
hold  up  his  head  while  I  go." 

Edith  was  quickly  down  by  the  side  of  her  preserver,  support- 
ing his  head  upon  her  breast.  Cloudesley  sped  towards  the 
house  for  water  and  assistance.  When  he  procured  what 
he  wanted  and  returned,  he  met  the  troop  of  collegians  on 
their  return  from  the  chase  of  the  retreating  marauders.  They 
reported  that  they  had  scattered  the  fugitives  in  every  direc- 
tion and  lost  them  in  the  labyrinths  of  the  forest.  They  were 
tremendously  elated  with  their  victory.  The  victory  of  school 
boys  over  regular  troops.  British  troops  !  That  was  the  way 
they  chose  to  consider  it.  But  not  a  very  surprising  feat  of 


68  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

arms  when  we  remember  that  the  boys  were  healthy  and  vigor- 
ous lads  from  thirteen  to  eighteen — well  mounted — well  armed, 
and  brave  as  lions,  and  that  they  three  times  outnumbered  the 
enemy,  who  was  already  overdone  by  a  day  and  night  and  morn- 
ing of  horrid  debauchery,  and  who,  taken  by  surprise,  would 
not  even  measure  the  strength  of  the  attacking  party. 

Yet,  nevertheless,  the  boys  were  fairly  delirious  with  the 
pride  of  their  first  victory. 

When  they  saw  the  young  British  officer  upon  the  ground, 
supported  in  the  arms  of  Edith,  they  rejoiced  over  another  pri- 
soner, as  they  thought.  Two  prisoners  of  war  taken  by  their 
party !  two  officers,  and  one  the  notorious  Thorg  !  That  was 
almost  too  much  glory  for  the  heads  of  boys  to  bear  sanely ! 

Several  of  them  dismounted  and  gathered  around  the  young 
ensign. 

But  Cloudesley  was  now  upon  the  spot,  and  while  he  bathed 
the  face  of  the  fainting  man,  explained  to  them  how  it  was,  and 
requested  some  one  to  ride  immediately  to  the  village  and  pro- 
cure a  physician.  Thurston  Willcoxen,  the  next  in  command 
under  him,  and  his  chosen  brother-in-arms,  mounted  his  horse 
and  galloped  off. 

A  mattrass  was  in  the  meantime  brought  down,  the  wounded 
man  laid  carefully  upon  it,  and  borne  by  the  boys  to  the  man- 
sion house.  He  was  laid  upon  a  cot  in  one  of  the  parlors.  A 
young  medical  student  among  the  youths,  sending  the  crowd 
from  the  bedside,  proceeded  to  open  his  dress  and  examine  his 
wound,  to  do  what  he  could  for  him  before  the  arrival  of  the 
doctor. 

Edith  retired  from  the  room,  and  sent  old  Jenny  to  his  as- 
sistance. Old  Jenny,  since  recovering  from  her  swoon,  had 
been  walking  about  "settling  things  up,"  mechanically,  like 
one  in  a  dream. 

Edith  found  herself  alone  with  Cloudesley,  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

"  Tell  me,  Cloudesley,"  she  said,  "how  it  was  that  you  came 
BO  opportunely  to  our  relief?" 


YOUNG      AMERICA      IN      1814.  f>9 

"  Why,  you  see,  Edith,  this  morning  we  fellows  were  at  our 
military  exercises,  in  the  academy  grounds,  when  the  news  came 
of  the  massacre  at  Hay  Hill.  As  soon  as  we  heard  it,  I  rode 
up  to  the  head  of  our  company,  and  turning  and  facing  them, 
I  said,  '  Soldiers,  attend  !'  And  they  attended.  '  You  have 
heard  of  the  inhuman  outrages  at  Hay  Hill.'  They  had  heard. 
'  Then  draw  your  swords.'  And  they  drew.  '  Throw  away  the 
scabbards.'  And  they  threw.  'Raise  their  points  to  Heaven.' 
Arid  they  raised.  'Bow  your  heads.'  And  they  bowed.  'Now 
swear  by  the  sacred  love  you  bear  your  mothers,  sisters  and 
sweethearts,  never  to  sheath  your  blades  until  you  sheath  them 
in  English  flesh.'  And  they  swore.  'Now  cry,  "God  for 
Harry,  England  and  St.  George  !"  No  !  thunder  and  blazes ! 
that  aiut  it !  I  mean,  "  God  for  vengeance,  Fannie,  and  Hay 
Hill !"  '  And  they  cried.  '  Now,  right  face  !  quick  step !  for- 
ward !  march  !'  And  they  marched.  And  here  we  are.  We 
came,  we  saw,  we  conquered." 

"  But  the  doctors !  I  wonder  they  did  not  feel  a  great  re- 
sponsibility in  letting  you  come  !" 

"  Oh,  the  Big  Wigs  did  try  to  stop  us.  But  they  were  not 
in  time.  You  see,  when  they  saw  me  from  the  house  haranguing 
my  men,  they  thought  we  were  only  exercising  as  usual.  Bub 
when  they  saw  the  company  detiling  down  the  road,  they 
came  running  out  in  a  body — old  Grim  at  their  head — to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  They  ordered  us  in.  But  soldiers  know 
their  duty  better.  I  addressed  them.  '  If  any  man  over  thir- 
teen years  of  age  deserts  his  ranks  at  this  crisis,  he  shall  be 
forever  expelled  from  this  company,  and  from  the  society  of  all 
honorable  men,  and  shall  be  considered  a  'pshaw  !  a  nuisance  in 
the  noses  of  fellows  forever  and  ever !'  The  majority  stood  by 
me — many  even  of  the  little  fellows  insisted  on  going  with  us — 
and  some  great  lubberly  babies  of  nineteen  went  back  with  the 
professoi's." 

"  But  you  started  for  Hay  Hill.  Alas !  much  too  late  it 
must  have  been  !  But  how  came  you  here  !" 

"  That's  it !     We  had  proceeded  about  three  miles  of  GUI 


70  THE      MISSING      B  K  I  D  E . 

march,  and  reached  the  fork  m  the  road  where  it  turns  in  to 
the  forest  towards  this  place,  when  we  met  an  old  woman  \vho 
told  us  that  Hay  Hill  was  nothing  but  a  blackened  heap  of 
smoking  ruins,  and  that  not  a  soul  of  either  destroyer  or  victim 
remained  upon  the  place,  but  that  we  must  go  to  Luckenough, 
where  we  should  be  wanted.  That  the  house  would  be  attacked, 
and  there  was  no  one  there  but  Miss  Edith  to  defend  it.  She 

said  she  had  started  to  go  to  C ,  and  get  us  to  come  for 

this  very  purpose — that  she  could  not  bear  for  Miss  Edith  to 
suffer,  whatever  might  befall  Luckenough  1" 

"  It  was  poor  old  Nell,  was  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  was  Nell  " 


CHAPTER    V. 

EDITH'S    LOVE. 

"  A  lightsome  eye.  a  coldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

My  love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew." — Sir  Walter  Scott. 

"EDITH!  I  should  not  hesitate  to  announce  the  fact  to  a 
young  lady  of  less  resolution  than  yourself,  but  my  dear  Lady 
Castellaine  !  we  must  fortify  this  '  castle'  as  well  as  we  can 
against  a  possible  renewal  of  the  attack,  for  the  probability  is 
those  rascals — I  beg  your  pardon,  Edith — may  report  their  own 
defeat,  and  our  weakness,  and  return  with  a  reinforcement  to 
burn  or  batter  down  these  walls  over  our  heads.  So,  I  believe 
I  inupt  go  and  see  the  other  fellows,  Edith,  and  consult  what  is 
best  to  be  done,"  said  Cloudesley  Mornington,  touching  his  cap 
to  the  young  lady  of  the  mansion,  as  he  left  her. 


EDITH'S       LOVE.  71 

Cloudesley  went  to  call  a  council  of  war  in  the  saloon. 

Edith  glided  softly  to  the  door  of  the  parlor,  where,  stretched 
upon  a  cot,  lay  her  wounded  champion.  But  though  she  list- 
ened attentively,  all  was  so  still  within,  that  she  could  hear 
nothing  of  his  condition.  After  a  little  anxious  listening,  and 
a  little  awkward  hesitation,  she  tapped  softly  at  the  door,  and 
brought  out  Solomon  Weismann,  the  young  medical  student, 
before  mentioned. 

"How  is — is — Thorg?"  asked  the  maiden. 

"  Thorg — oh  ! — he  ? — why,  he  is  seriously  injured — a  contu- 
sion of  the  cerebellum,  and  concussion  of  the  cerebrum,  de- 
priving him  for  the  present  of  the  powers  of  volition  and 
sensation,  and  threatening  to  terminate  in  death.  He  is  now 
lying  on  a  cot  in  the  next  room  to  this  of  the  young  ensign,  in 
a  comatose  state,  with  a  half  a  peck  of  ice  about  his  head,  and 
half  a  peck  of  mustard  about  his  extremities.  May  destiny 
baffle  the  utmost  skill  of  medical  science  in  his  case  !  I  feel  it 
my  duty  to  do  all  that  can  be  done  to  save  him,  but  I  hope  it 
may  fail,  that's  all." 

"  You  must  not  encourage  such  feelings  in  your  heart — for 
the  purity  and  nobility  of  your  own  soul,  you  must  not.  But — . 
your  other  patient  ?" 

"The  young  ensign?  Oh!  He  is  very  dreadfully  injured, 
indeed,  Miss  Lance,"  replied  the  youth,  who,  knowing  nothing 
of  the  circumstance  of  his  patient's  having  received  his  inju- 
ries in  Edith's  defence,  could  not  guess  that  she  should  take 
any  deep  interest  in  his  fate. 

"  Has  his  wound  been  dressed  ? — is  he  suffering  much  ?" 
asked  Edith,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"Why,  yes — to  both  of  your  questions !  I  have  dressed  his 
wound  as  well  as  circumstances  will  admit,  but  he  is  suffering 
extremely  ;  must  be,  you  know,  Miss  Lance.  You  see,  his  in- 
jury is  a  very  complicated  one — it  is  at  once  a  punctured, 
contused,  and  lacerated  wound — tearing  the  pectoralis-minor, 
shattering  the  third  and  fourth  ribs,  with  the  intercostal  mus- 
cles, near  their  articulation  with  the  second  os-sternum,  and 


72  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

driving  the  splintered  bones  through  the  pleura-cos talis,  and 
the  pleura-pulmonalis  into  the  parenchyma,"  answered  the 
young  student,  making  the  most  of  the  occasion  to  display  his 
science. 

"  But — is  that — a  very  dangerous  wound  or  not  ?  I  think  I 
don't  quite  understand,"  said  Edith,  faintly. 

"  Well,  I  judge  it  to  be  a  very  bad  thing,  Miss  Lance,  when 
the  ribs  are  broken  and  driven  into  the  substance  of  the  lungs." 

"  Oh  !"  gasped  the  young  girl,  with  a  painful  start,  as  if  she 
herself  had  received  a  bayonet  thrust  through  the  bosom. 

The  medical  student  went  pitilessly  on,  regardless  of  the  pain 
he  was  inflicting — 

"  High  inflammation  and  fever  has  set  in,  and  he  is  suffering 
excruciating  agony." 

"  I  hope — you  are  mistaken — I  did  not  hear — him  groan — 
once,"  faltered  Edith. 

"Why,  no  !  really,  he  shows  the  most  marvellous  fortitude — 
while  I  was  examining  and  probing  his  wound,  and  picking  ont 
little  splinters  of  bone  from  the  pleura,  and  taking  up  an  ar- 
tery, and  closing  up  the  ragged  gash — though  his  lips  were 
white,  and  his  brow  knitted  with  the  mortal  agony,  not  a  groan 
escaped  him  !  no,  not  one !  I  could  not  help  admiring  him, 
enemy  to  our  country  as  he  is  !" 

Edith  was  unconsciously  wringing  and  compressing  her  hands. 

"  But — the  wound  is  not  mortal — not  mortal  ?" 

"  Why,  what  a  tender  heart  you  have,  Miss  Edith,  to  feel  so 
much  compassion  for  a  wounded  enemy.  Suppose  it  had  been 
one  of  our  countrymen — yes !  suppose  it  had  been  me  ?  Why, 
the  shock  would  have  killed  you  !" 

"  But  the  wound  is  not  mortal — you — said  so — didn't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  did  not,  Miss  Lance.  Certainly  the  wound  i& 
mortal ;  but  you  need  not  distress  your  kind  heart  about  it,  for 
though  we  shall  do  all  that  we  possibly  can  to  alleviate  his  suf- 
ferings, yet  still  we  must  consider  that  he  is  our  country's  enemy, 
and  therefore  I  should  think  you  need  not  lay  awake,  to-night, 
thinking  of  his  misery,  or  go  into  mourning  for  him  when  he 
dies." 


EDITH'S    LOVE.  73 

"  Oh,  I  wish,  I  wish  the  surgeon  would  come !  When  do 
you  think  he  will  come  ?  You  are  so  young,  so  inexperienced, 
you  cannot  be  an  infallible  judge — you  may  be  mistaken.  Oh  1 
when  do  you  think  the  doctor  will  be  here  ?" 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say,  Miss  Lance,"  replied  Solo- 
mon, piqued  at  her  distrust  of  his  own  skill ;  "I  do  not  know 
—but  what  I  do  know  is,  that  the  doctor  cannot  do  much  when 
ne  does  come.  And  whether  he  gets  here  to-night  or  not,  I 
can  tell  you  how  it  will  all  end.  The  inflammation  must  in- 
crease, and  the  fever  rise  until  it  reaches  delirium,  and  his  ex- 
cruciating agonies  must  continue  to  augment  until  mortification 
sets  in,  when  the  pain  will  abate,  and  the  fever  subside,  and  an 
easy  death  close  the  scene.  This  will  probably  take  place  some 
time  to-morrow  morning.  Anything  more  you  wish  to  know, 
Miss  Lance  ?" 

"No!  no!" 

The  young  man  disappeared  within,  closing  the  door  after 
him. 

A  short  gasp,  a  suppressed  sob,  and  Edith  leaned,  half  faint- 
ing, against  the  wainscotting. 

Presently  she  heard  wheels  roll  up  to  the  door  and  stop. 
She  looked  up.  It  was  the  carriage  of  the  surgeon,  whom  she 
saw  alight  and  walk  up  the  steps.  She  went  to  meet  him,  com- 
posedly as  she  could,  and  conducted  him  to  the  door  of  the  sick 
room,  which  he  entered.  Edith  remained  in  the  hall,  softly 
walking  up  and  down,  and  sometimes  pausing  to  listen. 

After  a  little,  the  door  opened.  It  was  only  Solomon  Weis- 
mann,  who  asked  for  warm  water,  lint,  and  a  quantity  of  old 
linen.  These  Edith  quickly  supplied,  and  then  remained  alone 
in  the  hall,  walking  up  and  down,  and  pausing  to  listen  as  be- 
fore :  once  she  heard  a  deep  shuddering  groan,  as  of  one  in 
mortal  extremity,  and  her  own  heart  and  frame  thrilled  to  the 
sound,  and  then  all  was  still  as  before. 

An  hour,  two  hours,  passed,  and  then  the  door  opened  again, 
and  Edith  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  surgeon,  with  his  shirt 
sleeves  pushed  above  his  elbows,  and  a  pair  of  bloody  hands 


74  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

It  was  Solomon  who  opened  the  door  to  ask  for  a  basin  of 
water,  towels  and  soap,  for  the  doctor  to  wash.  Edith  fur- 
nished these  also. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  the  door  opened  a  third  time,  and 
the  doctor  himself  came  out,  fresh  and  smiling.  His  counte- 
nance and  his  manner  were  in  every  respect  encouraging. 

"  Come  into  the  drawing-room  a  moment,  if  you  please,  Miss 
Edith,  I  want  to  speak  with  you." 

Edith  desired  nothing  more,  just  at  that  moment. 

"  Well,  doctor — your  patient  ?"  she  inquired,  anxiously. 

"  Will  do  very  well  J  Will  do  very  well  I  That  is,  if  he  be 
properly  attended  to,  and  that  is  what  I  wished  to  speak  to 
you  about,  Miss  Edith.  I  have  seen  you  near  sick  beds  before 
this,  my  dear,  and  know  that  I  can  better  trust  you  than  any 
one  to  whom  I  could  at  present  apply.  I  intend  to  instal  you 
as  his  nurse,  my  dear.  When  a  life  depends  upon  your  care, 
you  will  waive  any  scruples  you  might  otherwise  feel,  Miss 
Edith,  I  am  sure  1  You  will  have  your  old  maid,  Jenny,  to 
assist  you,  and  Solomon  at  hand,  in  case  of  an  emergency.  But 
I  intend  to  delegate  niy  authority,  and  leave  my  directions  with 
you." 

"  Yes,  doctor,  I  will  do  my  very  best  for  your  patient." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that.     I  am  sure  of  that." 

She  wished  to  tell  him  that  the  invalid  was  her  preserver, 
and  had  received  the  wound  in  defending  her  from  his  own 
party,  but  it  was  a  long,  eloquent  story,  in  Edith's  apprehen- 
sion ;  she  would  not  interrupt  his  directions  by  alluding  to  it 
now — she  would  do  full  justice  to  it  another  time.  Kow  she 
wanted  to  receive  his  orders  and  ask  some  questions. 

"  His  wound,  doctor,  is  not  dangerous  then  ?" 

"  Well— no,  Miss  Edith,  if  he  is  properly  nursed." 

"  Solomon  Weismann  told  me  the  wound  was  a  very  terrible 
one,"  said  Edith,  repeating  the  description  he  had  given  of  the 
injury. 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  Solomon  is  a  pedantic  fool !  and  bent  upon  astonishing 
everybody  with  his  knowledge." 


EDITH'S    LOVE.  75 

"  Sarvunt,  sir !  Beg  your  pardon,  marster,  fer  interruptm' 
o'  you  !  but  you  'low  how  Marse  Solomun  Weismann  was  not 
sensible  o'  his  'fession  ?"  inquired  Jenny,  appearing  at  the  door 
with  a  scrap  of  paper  in  her  hand,  which  she  studied  very 
dubiously. 

"  Well,  now,  Aunty,  I  rather  think  it  is  no  concern  of  yours." 

"  'Deed,  beg  your  pardon,  marster,  it's  a  heap  o'  'cern  o' 
mine.  'Cause,  you  see,  marster,  how  I  took  a  'struction  in  my 
t'roat  quiusequence  o'  settin'  out'n  de  jew  long  o'  Miss  Edy 
las'  night.  So  jes'  now  I  tells  Doctor  Solomun  'bout  it.  An' 
he  look  down  my  t'roat,  he  did,  an'  'formed  me  how  I  had  de 
tongs-an-sumtiu-or  oder." 

"  Do  you  mean  tonsilitis?" 

"Yes,  marse  1  dat  it!  tongs-and-eat-us,  an'  he  guv  me  dis 
yer  'scription !"  said  Jenny,  handing  the  mysterious  scrap  of 
paper.  "  Please  read  it,  marster,  an'  see  if  it's  all  right — case 
I  has  my  doubts  o'  dese  yer  youngsters." 

The  doctor  took  the  paper  and  laughingly  read,  "  Pulv. 
Capsi.  one  scruple,  Chlorid.  Sodea.  half  a  scruple,  Aceti.  half 
a  fluid  ounce,  Aqua.  Puris.  Bull.,  quantum  suf." 

Jenny  listened  with  her  mouth  and  eyes  growing  wider  at 
every  item,  until  at  its  conclusion  she  burst  out  indignantly  with, 

"  Dar  I  what  I  tell  you  ?  Mus'  t'ink  how  people's  a  funnelly 
fool  !  to  heave  all  dat  dere  rank  pisen  truck  down  der  'troats !" 

"  Why,  that's  all  very  good  ! — all  right ! — simple  and  proper 
remedy  enough!  thafs  the  pedantic  for  red  pepper  tea!  which 
you  know  of  yourself  is  good  for  a  common  sore  throat,  and 
which  you  can  make  for  yourself  well  enough !  There !  now 
take  yourself  off  Jenny;  I  have  something  to  say  to  your 
mistress." 

Jenny  left  the  room,  grumbling  to  herself, 

"  Wonner  why  de  debbil  dat  der  'ceited  fellow  could'nt  o' 
tolled  me  to  make  pepper  tea  for  my  sore  t'roat  'stead  of  writin' 
down  Pull.  Caps  an  Aquafortis  bull.  It  do  soun  gran'  though, 
'deed  do  it!  'Aqua  fortis,'  I'll  member  of  'em!  Ah!  Lor', 
what  it  is  to  have  an  edification  I" 


76  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

The  doctor  was  giving  Edith  his  last  directions. 

"  Above  all  things,  Miss  Lance,  the  patient  must  be  kept 
entirely  free  from  heat  and  excitement  of  all  kinds — he  must  be 
kept  perfectly  still  and  cool,  yet  not  too  cool — yon  must  use 
your  judgment.  You  will  find  the  same  directions,  together 
with  my  written  orders  for  the  regulation  of  his  medicine  and 
diet  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  on  this  paper."  And  the 
doctor  placed  in  her  bands  a  folded  slip,  and  took  his  departure. 

Edith  was  glad  to  have  the  privilege — nay,  the  duty  of  nurs- 
ing her  invalid.  Yet  she  felt  by  no  means  at  ease.  She  knew 
the  doctor's  way  of  old — how,  with  his  cheerful,  hopeful  temper, 
and  encouraging,  flattering  tongue,  he  was  just  as  apt  to  put 
too  fair  a  face  upon  matters  as  Mr.  Solomon  was  to  put  too 
dark  a  one.  She  had  often  heard  it  said  of  the  doctor,  "  Oh  ! 
Doctor  Brightwell,  though  the  best  doctor  in  the  world,  will 
never  own  that  there  is  anything  serious  the  matter  until  the 
patient  is  in  the  grave!"  Edith -knew  it  to  be  true  of  him, 
too.  And  so  it  was  not  with  the  lightest  of  hearts  that  she  en- 
tered the  sick  room  of  her  patient.  She  was  relieved  from  the 
deep  despondency  into  which  Solomon's  report  had  thrown  her, 
but  not  from  anxiety.  She  prepared  the  iced  tamarind  water 
the  doctor  had  ordered  to  cool  his  burning  thirst,  and  placed  it 
on  a  stand  at  hand,  and  then  she  took  a  large  feather  fan  and 
sut  down  to  fan  him — her  present  duty  being  to  keep  him  cool, 
yet  to  keep  his  chest  covered  carefully,  lest  the  least  air  should 
penetrate  to  that  dreadful  wound,  and  to  give  him  drink  when- 
ever he  needed  it.  Since  the  fatigue  and  pain  of  the  second 
and  thorough  examination  and  dressing,  the  surgeon  had  found 
it  necessary  to  give  the  wound  after  his  clumsy  student,  the 
patient  had  fallen  into  the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  But  his  face 
was  flushed  with  rising  fever,  his  slumber  was  restless — he  mur- 
mured in  his  disturbed  dreams,  and  threw  about  his  left  arm ; 
his  right  arm,  though  itself  uninjured,  was  bound  down,  lest  its 
slightest  motion  should  disturb  the  wound  upon  that  side.  He 
needed  the  closest  watching,  the  most  vigilant  attention,  such 
as  only  one  so  interested  in  his  life  as  Edith  WAS  would  give 


EDITH'SLOVE.  • 7 

him.  He  awoke  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and 
took  the  drink  from  her  hands,  but  never  recognized  his  nurse. 
He  called  her  "Marian,"  and  "dearest  Marian."  But  never 
"  Edith."  Edith,  and  the  scenes  of  the  last  few  hours,  seemed 
to  have  passed  from  his  memory.  As  his  fever  rose,  the  poor 
girl's  heart  sank,  she  thought  Solomon's  prophecy  was  about  to 
be  fuiailed. 

The  long,  gawk)'  figure,  red  head,  and  freckled  face  of  the 
medical  student  frequently  appeared  at  the  door,  and  ouce  dur- 
ing the  evening  he  relieved  her  watch,  while  she  went  out  to 
give  some  orders  to  Jenny  and  Oliver. 

"And  I  likes  for  to  know,  Miss  Edy,  what  we-dem  got  to 
get  for  dein  dar  boys'  suppers  ?  Dey  aint  had  the  fust  bit  of 
dinner,  an'  is  as  hungry  as  houn'  dogs,"  said  the  latter. 

And  indeed  it  was  a  serious  consideration.  There  were  some 
thirty  youth  ;  and  the  provisions  of  the  garrison  of  Luckenough 
were  not  extensive — the  first  evacuating  party  under  Commo- 
dore Waugh  having  carried  off  nearly  all  the  edibles.  Edith 
was  nonplussed. 

"  If  I  kills  all  de  chickens  as  is  left,  and  cooks  all  de  bacon 
and  eggs,  der'll  be  enough  for  to-night  and  to-morrow  mornin'. 
But  what  de  debbil  we-dem  gwine  do  arter  dat?" 

"  Oh,  well!  if  there's  enough  for  the  present,  use  it,  Jenny, 
and  to-morrow  we  can  send  to  some  of  the  neighbors  and  get 
provisions."  So  this  matter  was  settled,  and  Edith  resumed 
her  watch. 

She  watched  by  his  cot  through  all  the  night,  fanning  him 
softly,  keeping  his  chest  covered  from  the  air,  giving  him  his 
medk'ine  at  the  proper  intervals,  and  putting  drink  to  his  lipa 
when  he  needed  it.  But  never  trusted  her  eyelids  to  close  for 
a  moment.  Jenny  shared  her  vigil  by  nodding  in  an  easy 
chair;  and  the  young  medical  student  by  sleeping  soundly  on 
the  wooden  settee  in  the  hall.  So  passed  the  night.  After 
midnight,  to  Edith's  great  relief,  his  fever  began  to  abate,  and 
he  sunk  into  a  sweet  sleep.  In  the  morning  Solomou  roused 
hiuiself,  and  came  in  and  relieved  Edith's  watch,  and  attended 
5 


78  THE       MISSING      BRIDE. 

to  the  wants  of  the  patient,  while  she  went  to  her  room  to  bathe 
her  face  and  weary  eyes. 

After  breakfast  there  was  an  arrival  at  the  honse.  Two  of 
the  professors  from  the  academy  came  in  search  of  their  pupils. 
They  explained  that  they  should  have  come  the  evening  before 
had  not  the  return  of  Doctor  Brightwell  to  the  village,  and  his 
report  of  the  state  of  affairs  at  Luckenough,  put  them  at  ease 
in  respect  to  their  charge.  The  professors  reported  that  the 
British  forces  were  far  on  their  march  to  Washington  City,  and 
the  neighborhood  was  for  the  present  delivered  from  their  com- 
pany. The  lads  were  then  mustered,  the  roll  called,  and  all 
being  found  right,  they  departed  with  the  professors  once  more 
for  "Academic  Shades."  And  Edith  and  her  patient,  with 
Jenny  and  Oliver,  who  attended  Thorg,  were  left  alone  in  the 
hall. 

She  prepared  the  light,  nutritious  food  he  was  permitted  to 
partake,  and  placed  it  on  the  stand  by  the  bedside  ready  for 
him,  when  he  shonld  awake,  and  then  resumed  her  seat  beside 
him  to  fan  him,  and  to  watch  the  refreshing  sleep  into  which 
he  had  fallen.  No  mother  ever  watched  her  child  with  more 
care  and  tenderness. 

How  she  thanked  Heaven  for  that  restoring  sleep,  and  for 
the  deep,  cool  quiet  of  the  whole  house,  so  favorable  to  the 
sufferer.  The  back  windows  of  the  room  were  open,  but  the 
thick  branches  of  the  old  elm  trees  made  a  dark,  pleasant  shade, 
and  the  cool  breeze  murmured  low,  slumbrous  music  through 
the  rustling  leaves  as  it  came  into  the  room.  Everything  was 
so  soothing  and  refreshing  to  the  invalid,  and  she  so  quietly 
rejoiced  in  it. 

How  strangely — how  suddenly  this  new  interest  had  entered 
her  soul  Twenty-four  hours  ago,  and  she  had  never  known 
the  existence  of  this  generous,  noble  boy,  who  now  occupied 
all  her  thoughts.  Twenty-four  hours  ago  she  had  not  seen  his 
face,  and  now  that  beautiful  countenance,  with  the  elegant 
Hebrew  profile — the  high,  pale  forehead,  crested  with  raven 
black  ringlets,  the  acquiline  nose  with  the  thin,  quivering  nos- 


EDITH'S    LOVE.  79 

trii,  the  short,  haughty  upper  lip,  and  the  superbly  curved  chin, 
the  dark,  flashing  eyes,  "  like  the  eagle's,  yet  sometimes  like 
the  dove's" — the  eyes  that  had  blazed  with  such  insufferable 
light  when  defending  her,  yet  softened  into  such  ineffable  ten- 
derness when  speaking  to  her — the  whole  beautiful,  spirited, 
yet  gentle  countenance,  seemed  familiar  and  dear  as  though  it 
had  always  been  associated  with  her  life,  and  indispensable  to 
its  happiness. 

Towards  noon  he  opened  his  eyes,  turned  them  around  the 
room,  and  slowly  came  to  the  consciousness  of  his  position. 
His  wandering  glance  fell  upon  Edith,  and  softened  and  bright- 
ened as  it  were  at  once.  With  a  smile  full  of  almost  child-like 
surprise  and  delight,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  Are  you  nursing  me,  dear  lady  ?  this  is  very  good." 

"  How  do  you  feel  now  ?"  asked  Edith,  taking  the  hand  that 
he  held  out.  It  was  rather  feverish,  and  she  began  to  sponge 
it  with  cold  water. 

"I  am  better,  I  think,  gentle  lady.  I  thank  you  very 
much." 

His  voice  was  faint,  he  spoke  with  difficulty,  and  after  saying 
that,  spoke  only  with  his  eloquent  eyes,  while  Edith  bathed  his 
hands  and  face,  and  placed  his  little  refreshment  to  his  lips. 

In  the  midst  of  this  the  surgeon  arrived,  and  entered  the  hall 
in  a  little  smothered  bustle. 

Edith  went  out  to  receive  him.  He  had  brought  along  with 
him  an  elderly  lady  from  the  village — one  Miss  Nancy  Skamp — 
a  distant  relative  of  his  own,  who,  he  told  Edith,  would  remain 
with  her  as  long  as  she  needed  her  company  and  assistance. 

Miss  Nancy  had  gone  up  stairs  in  charge  of  Jenny,  to  tak& 
off  her  bonnet  and  "  things." 

Edith  accompanied  the  doctor  to  the  sick  room.  He  re- 
ceived Edith's  report,  praised  her  skill,  examined  the  condition 
of  his  patient,  and  was  sorry  to  find  him  not  so  well  as  he  had 
noped  and  expected.  There  appeared  to  be  much  inflamma- 
tion, and  the  fever  was  rising  again. 

Edith  supplied  the  doctor  with  everything  requisite  for  the 


80  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

re-dressing  of  the  wound,  sent  Jenny  in  to  wait  upon  him,  and 
then  went  out  to  welcome  Miss  Nancy  Skainp,  who  was  now 
coming  down  the  stairs. 

Miss  Nancy,  by-the-way,  was  "  own  aunt"  and  sole  proprie- 
tress of  Mr.  Solomon  Skanip  Weismann,  the  promising  young 
aspirant  to  medical  honors.  She  was  like  him,  too.  They 
were  "  like  as  two  pins,"  the  neighbors  said.  The  same  tall, 
bony  figure — the  same  red  hair — the  same  fair,  freckled  skin — 
the  same  sharp,  thin  features,  which,  nevertheless,  gave  a  mas- 
culine look  to  the  old  lady's  face,  and  a  feminine  air  to  the 
young  gentleman's.  Miss  Nancy  piqued  herself  upon  her  owu 
and  her  nephew's  red  hair  and  freckles — they  were  the  signs, 
she  said,  of  the  very  purest  Saxon  blood — none  of  your  Celtic, 
or  other  inferior  races,  ever  freckled  or  had  red  hair. 

In  talking  with  Edith,  Miss  Nancy  corroborated  the  report 
made  by  the  professors  in  the  morning — the  British  forces  had 
entirely  left  the  neighborhood — that  was  ascertained  beyond 
all  doubt. 

"  But,  oh!  wasn't  that  the  awfullest  massacree  at  Hay  Hill, 
Miss  Edith  ?" 

"Horrible,  indeed  1  And  who  could  have  foreseen  it?" 
said  Edith,  shuddering. 

"  Why,  most  any  one,  Miss  Edith,  I  should  think  1  It  has 
always  beeu  my  opinion,  when  people  come  to  bad  ends  it's 
their  own  faults.  Now,  there's  Fanny  Fairlie — " 

"  Dearest  Fanny!  has  anything  been  heard  of  her  since  that 
night  ?» 

"  No,  nothing  certain.  They  do  say  she  was  seen  rambling 
about  in  the  woods,  as  mad  as  a  March  hare.  The  two  oid 
negroes  that  escaped  massaerm'«y,  you  know,  are  staying  at 
Oid  Fields,  with  Mrs.  L'Olseau.  It  seems  to  me  she  ha3 
enough  to  feed,  poor  lady,  without  them." 

The  doctor  now  entered,  to  leave  new  directions  with  Edith 
and  Miss  Nancy,  and  to  take  his  departure. 

He  said  he  should  send  Solomon  over  that  night,  to  sit  up 
with  the  sick  man. 


EDITH 'S      LOVE.  81 

So,  towards  evening,  according  to  promise,  Mr.  Solomon, 
arrived.  And  soon  after  supper  Miss  Nancy  obliged  Edith 
and  her  two  fatigued  attendants  to  go  to* their  several  apart- 
ments. 

For  some  time  after  Edith  lay  down,  she  was  kept  awake  by 
that  strong  nervous  excitability  induced  by  loss  of  sleep,  and  it 
was  midnight  when  at  last  she  sunk  into  a  fitful  and  perturbed 
slumber.  About  two  hours  after  she  was  awakened  by  the 
sound  of  groans.  She  sat  up  to  listen.  It  was  her  patient, 
who  was  groaning  and  tossing,  and  talking  to  himself,  and  no 
one  seeming  to  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  him. 

Edith  arose  quickly,  slipped  on  her  dressing-gown,  and  went 
into  his  room. 

There  sat  the  aunt  and  nephew  sound  asleep.  And  there 
rolled  and  tossed  the  wounded  man,  wild  with  fever,  pain  and 
burning  thirst. 

Edith  gave  him  the  cooling  beverage,  and  sponged  his  head 
and  face  and  hands  with  aromatic  vinegar.  But  the  fierce 
heat  of  the  fever  dried  up  the  moisture  without  being  cooled 
by  it,  and  he  still  raved  and  tossed  in  high  delirium.  Edith 
was  very  much  alarmed.  She  roused  up  Mr.  Solomon,  and 
sent  him,  on  horseback,  to  the  village  for  the  doctor.  And 
then  she  woke  up  Miss  Nancy,  who  had  slept  through  all  this, 
and  whose  first  words,  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  were, 

"Ah!  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Miss  Edith,  for  I  have  not 
closed  my  eyes  all  night,  and  I'm  all  but  worn  out ;  so  now, 
honey,  if  you'll  just  take  my  place,  I'll  go  and  try  to  get  some 
sleep."  And  rising  and  yawning,  she  walked  away. 

Edith  let  her  depart,  and  waked  up  Jenny  in  her  stead.  The 
patient's  delirium  rose  to  frenzy;  and  it  began  to  be  as  much 
as  Jenny  and  Oliver,  who  was  called  to  her  assistance,  could 
do  to  keep  him  in  the  bed.  The  doctor  came  at  sunrise.  He 
administered  such  remedies  as  his  skill  and  experience  sug- 
gested, but  ascribed  the  whole  mischief  to  the  first  unskillful 
dressing  of  the  wound  by  Solomon,  and  said  that  he  was  sure 
some  extraneous  substance  had  been  permitted  to  work  its  way 


82  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

into  the  lungs,  where  no  one  knew  the  extent  of  the  evil  it 
might  now,  or  eventually  cause. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  the  present  sufferings  of  the  patient  were 
terrible.  And  for  days  life  was  despaired  of.  The  most  skillful 
medical  treatment,  and  the  most  careful  nursing  only,  had 
scarcely  saved  his  life.  And  even  after  the  imminent  danger 
was  over,  it  was  weeks  before  he  was  able  to  be  lifted  from  tho 
bed  to  the  sofa. 

In  the  meantime,  Thorg  recovered,  and  prepared  to  leave 
the  house.  He  took  quite  an  affectionate  leave  of  the  young 
ensign,  and  with  an  appearance  of  great  friendliness  and  ho- 
nesty, promised  to  interest  himself,  at  head-quarters,  in  behalf 
of  the  young  officer.  This  somehow  filled  Edith  with  a  vague 
distrust,  and  dark  foreboding,  for  which  she  could  neither  ac- 
count, nor  excuse  herself,  nor  yet  shake  off.  Thorg  had  been 
exchanged,  and  he  joined  his  regiment  after  its  return  from 
Washington  City,  and  before  it  sailed  from  the  shores  of 
America. 

Weeks  passed,  during  which  the  invalid  occupied  the  sofa  in 
his  room — and  Edith  was  his  sole  nurse ;  Miss  Nancy  Skamp 
having  left  the  house.  And  then  Commodore  Waugh,  with  his 
wife,  servants,  and  caravan,  returned  to  Luckenough. 

The  old  soldier  had  been  "  posted  up,"  he  said,  relative  to 
all  that  had  transpired  in  his  absence. 

There  were  no  words,  he  declared,  to  express  his  admiration 
of  Edith's  "heroism." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Edith  assured  him  that  she  had  not  been 
heroic  at  all — that  the  preservation  of  Luckenough  had  been 
due  rather  to  the  timely  succor  of  the  college  boys,  than  to  her 
own  imprudent  resolution.  It  did  no  good — the  old  man  was 
determined  to  look  upon  his  niece  as  a  heroine  worthy  to  stand 
by  the  side  of  Joan  of  Arc. 

"For,"  said  he,  "was  it  not  the  soul  of  a  heroine,  that  en- 
abled her  to  stay  and  guard  the  house ;  and  would  the  college 
company  ever  have  come  to  the  rescue  of  these  old  walls,  if  they 
had  not  heard  that  she  had  resolutely  remained  to  guard  them. 


EDITH'S    TROUBLES.  83 

and  was  almost  alone  in  the  house  ?  Don't  tell  me !  Edith  is 
the  star  maiden  of  old  St.  Mary's,  and  I'm  proud  of  her  I  She 
is  worthy  to  be  my  niece  and  heiress !  A  true  descendant  of 
Marie  Zelenski,  is  she!  And  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Edith!" 
he  said,  turning  to  her,  "  I'll  reward  you,  my  dear  I  I  will.  I'll 
marry  you  to  Professor  Grimshaw !  That's  what  I'll  do,  my 
dear  !  And  you  both  shall  have  Luckenough ;  that  you  shall !" 
Months  passed — the  war  was  over — peace  was  proclaimed, 
and  still  the  young  ensign,  an  invalid,  unable  to  travel,  lingered 
at  Luckenough.  Regularly  he  received  his  pay ;  twice  he  re- 
ceived an  extension  of  leave  of  absence ;  and  all  through  the 
instrumentality  of — THOEG.  Yet  all  this  filled  Edith  with  the 
greatest  uneasiness  and  foreboding — ungrateful,  incomprehensi- 
ble, yet  impossible  to  be  delivered  from. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

EDITH'S    TROUBLES. 

"  One  hath  stirred  within  thy  breast 
The  quick  and  lasting  interest, 
That  is  not  easily  suppressed." 

"  I  CANXOT  tell,  for  the  life  of  me,  why  Edith  should  prefer 
the  love  of  a  stranger,  whom  she  hasn't  known  half  a  year,  to 
that  of  her  old  uncle,  whom  she  has  known  all  her  life," 
growled  Old  Nick. 

"  You  must  remember  your  own  youth — you  preferred  the  love 
of  a  stranger  to  that  of  the  father  you  had  known  all  your  life/ 
said  good  Henrietta. 

"  Humph!  Humph!"  said  the  Commodore. 

"Yes,  and  you  wished  to  marry,  too,  when  you  were  young." 

"  No !  I  didn't,  neither,  Old  Hen,  I  ran  away  from  you  and 


84  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

went  to  sea,  and  was  gone  nigh  upon  twenty  years.  If  /mar- 
ried, it  was  all  your  doings,  indeed!  What  would  ail  me  to  tie 
myself  to  one  tree,  when  I  could  have  the  range  of  the  whole 
orchard  ?  But  you  had  waited  for  me  so  long,  and  were  so 
fond  of  me.  However !  I  won't  hit  you  in  the  teeth  with  it, 
Old  Honey.  But  now  about  Edith !  If  she  must  fall  in  love  ! 
I  want  to  know  why  in  the  mischief  she  don't  fall  in  love  with 
Grim'  ?  Now,  Grim'  is  what  I  call  a  man  for  any  woman's 
eye,  that  is,  if  /know  anything  about  women  !" 

"Which  you  don't!" 

"  Isn't  he  a  very  handsome  man,  now?" 

"  In  his  own  opinion." 

"Well,  he  is  very  learned,  that  you'll  admit?" 

"Pedantic,  you  mean." 

"  And  very  religious !" 

"  Self-righteous." 

"Oh-h-h!"  roared  the  Commodore,  thrusting  forward  his 
head,  and  striking  his  stick  upon  the  floor,  "  I  vow  to  heaven, 
Old  Hen,  you'd  be-devil  an  angel." 

"  Yes !  angels  of  darkness !" 

"  I  uphold  that  Grim'  is  a  perfect  man  !" 

"  Oh !  yes !  Professor  Grimshaw  is  perfectly  intolerable  1 
Edith  feels  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"Intolerable  upon  what  account,  I  should  like  to  be  in- 
formed ?  If  he  were  ugly,  or  deformed,  or  stupid,  or  poor,  I 
could  comprehend  it;  but  he  is  a  man  of  good  looks,  good 
parts,  and  good  prospects !" 

"Yes  1  but  women  don't  necessarily  fall  in  love  with  a  man's 
heauty,  intellect,  or  social  advantages." 

"With  what  then,  I  want  very  much  to  know!  With  his 
ucrliness,  or  stupidity,  or  forlornity,  I  suppose?" 

"Just  as  likely  as  not." 

''Oh-h-h!"  bellowed  Old  Nick,  thrusting  forward  his  great 
head,  and  ramming  his  stick  into  the  floor,  "  O-h-h-h  1  You 
put  me  past  all  my  patience  with  your  conceit,  and  your  rash 
general  rules.  You  never  knew  one  particular  instance  of  what 
von  say.  J  defy  you  to  tell  me  one.  just  one,  now  ono!" 


EDITH'S    TROUBLES.  85 

"Well,  I  married  you." 

"Humph!  Humph!  Humph!"  said  Old  Nick. 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  this. 

"Well,  at  last,"  said  the  old  Commodore,  "what  I  l»jve  re- 
Bolved  upon  is  this — that  Grim'  shall  be  the  master  ot  Luck- 
enough,  let  who  will  be  the  mistress  !" 

"  Then  give  it  to  him  in  the  name  of  all  that's  ugly,  but 
don't,  for  heaven's  sake,  tempt  any  of  your  poor  nieces,  through 
their  necessities,  or  clog  the  gift  with  the  burden  of  an  un- 
willing and  unacceptable  wife.  As  for  Edith,  her  heart's  in- 
tegrity is  incorruptible — and  Doctor  Grimshaw  himself,  occupies 
his  thoughts  as  little  with  Edith  as  she  does  with  him." 

"Now,  that's  what  I  call  confounded  perversity  and  ingrati- 
tude, when  they  know  how  it  would  please  me,  and  my  good 
intentions  towards  them.  What  the  mischief  should  ail  Grim' 
and  Edith,  not  to  fall  in  love  with  each  other,  when  I  desire  it  ?" 

"Because  honest  hearts  are  not  to  be  bought,  or  sold,  or 
persuaded." 

"Oh-h-h!"  blowed  Old  Nick,  "I'm  tired  of  all  the  con- 
founded nonsense  !  but  I  know  what  I'll  do." 

Here  the  conversation  ended. 

From  the  foregoing  dialogue,  you  will  see  how  affairs  stood 
at  Luckenough.  It  was  late  in  the  spring,  Mr.  Shields  had  re- 
ceived orders  to  join  his  regiment  in  Canada,  and  upon  their 
reception,  he  had  had  an  explanation  with  Edith,  and  with  her 
permission,  had  requested  her  hand  of  her  uncle,  Commodore 
Waugh.  This  threw  the  veteran  into  a  towering  passion,  and 
nearly  dr.ove  him  from  his  proprieties  as  host.  The  young 
ensign  was  unacceptable  to  him  upon  every  account.  First 
and  foremost,  he  wasn't  "Grim."  Then  he  was  an  Israelite. 
And,  lastly  !  horror  of  horrors !  he  was  a  British  officer,  and 
dared  to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  Edith.  It  was  in  vain  that  his 
wife,  the  good  Henrietta,  tried  to  mollify  him  ;  the  storm  raged 
for  several  days — raged,  till  it  had  expended  all  its  strength, 
and  subsided  from  exhaustion.  Then  he  came,  as  he  always 


8G  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ultimately  did,  under  the  influence  of  Henrietta's  calm  tempera- 
ment and  better  judgment.  First  of  all,  she  assured  hiui  that 
"what  will  be,  will  be,"  that  whether  he  opposed  or  favored 
the  match,  it  would  finally  come  off,  that  love  is  no  respecter 
of  persons,  prejudices  or  creeds — that  any  one  could  see  that 
two  such  lovely,  excellent  beings  as  Edith  and  Shields,  were 
created  for  each  other,  and  would  make  a  "  matchless  pair  " 
If  he  did  not  contradict  her,  he  assented  silently,  or  with  a 
grunt — a  bearish,  sullen  sort  of  assent — and  he  took  his  resolu- 
tion. Soon  after  this  he  summoned  Edith  to  his  presence. 

•'  Come  here,  huzzy  1  So  1  you're  determined,  are  you,  to 
marry  this  young  rascal  ?" 

Edith  cast  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Well,  I  am  to  take  your  silence  for  assent,  I  suppose? 
Very  good.  Now,  here  is  my  ultimatum.  I  am  no  tyrant, 
minion,  do  you  hear !  I  oppose  nobody's  freedom  of  will — not 
I !  I  let  every  fool  do  as  they  like  ;  only  I  claim  the  privilege 
of  doing  as  /  like  also.  God  Almighty  gave  man  so  much  free 
agency,  that  he  may  redeem  and  sanctify  himself,  if  he  pleases, 
or  damn  himself  to  all  eternity,  if  he  likes  that  better !  Hea- 
ven save  me  from  the  sin  of  depriving  one  of  His  creatures  of 
their  meed  of  liberty  1  Therefore,  Miss  Edith  Lance  !  marry, 
if  you  like,  and  whom  you  like.  You  are  of  age  !  But  hear, 
in  that  case,  what  I  shall  do.  I  have  hitherto  made  no  secret 
of  my  intentions  towards  you.  They  were,  to  have  made  you 
the  heiress  of  all  my  possessions.  Now  all  I  have  to  say  to  you 
is  this — that  if  you  will  have  the  good  sense  to  marry  Mr. 
Grimshaw,  these  intentions  shall  be  more  than  fulfilled — they 
shall  be  anticipated.  Upon  your  marriage  with  Grimshaw,  I 
will  give  you  a  conveyance  of  Luckenough — only  reserving  to 
myself  and  Old  Hen  a  house,  and  a  life-support  in  the  place ; 
but  if  you  will  persist  in  your  foolish  preference  for  that  young 
scamp,  I  will  give  you — nothing.  That  is  all,  Edith.  Now  go 
and  do  as  you  please.  Only,  as  the  Master  said  when  He  was 
betrayed  by  one  He  had  chosen  ;  '  What  thou  doest,  do  quickly !' 
I  cannot  bear  suspense  !" 


EDITH'S    TROUBLES.  87 

During  the  speech  Edith  remained  standing,  with  her  eyea 
fixed  upon  the  floor.  Now,  she  spoke  with  tearful  eyes  and  in 
a  tremulous  voice. 

"  That  is  all — is  it  not,  uncle  ?  You  will  not  deprive  ine  of 
any  portion  of  your  love :  will  you,  uncle  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Edith!  I  cannot  tell;  when  you  have  deli 
berately  chosen  one  of  your  own  fancy,  in  preference  to  one  of 
mine — the  man  I  care  most  for  in  the  world,  and  whom  I  chose 
especially  for  you ;  why,  you've  speared  me  right  through  a 
very  tender  part ;  however,  as  I  said  before,  what  you  do,  do 
quickly  !  I  cannot  bear  to  be  kept  upon  the  tenter  hooks  !" 

"  I  will  talk  with  Michael,  uncle,"  said  Edith,  meekly. 

She  went  out,  and  found  him  pacing  the  lawn  at  the  back  of 
the  house. 

He  turned  towards  her  with  a  glad  smile,  took  her  hand  as 
she  approached  him,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Dearest  Edith,  where  have  you  been  so  long  ?" 

"  With  my  uncle,  Michael.  I  have  my  uncle's  '  ultimatum,' 
as  he  calls  it." 

"  What  is  it,  Edith  ?" 

"  Ah  I  how  shall  I  tell  you  without  offence  ?  But,  dearest 
Michael,  you  will  not  mind — you  will  forgive  an  old  man's 
childish  prejudices,  especially  when  you  know  they  are  not  per- 
sonal— but  circumstantial,  national,  bigoted." 

"Well,  Edith!  well?" 

"  Michael,  he  says — he  says  that  I  may  give  you  my  hand — " 

"  Said  he  so  !  bless  that  fair  hand,  and  bless  him  who  be- 
stows it!"  he  exclaimed,  clasping  her  fingers  and  pressing  them 
to  his  lips. 

"  Yes,  Michael,  but—" 

"  But  what !  there  is  no  but ;  he  permits  you  to  give  me  your 
hand;  there  is  then  no  but — 'a  jailor  to  bring  forth  some  mon- 
strous malefactor.'  " 

"  Yet  listen  !     You  know  I  was  to  have  been  his  heiress !" 

"No,  indeed  I  did  not  know  it  I  never  heard  it!  never  sus- 


38  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

pected  it!  never  even  thought  of  it!  How  did  I  know  but 
that  he  had  sons  and  daughters,  or  nephews  away  at  school !" 

"  Well,  I  was  to  have  been  his  heiress.  Now  he  disinherits 
me,  unless  I  consent  to  be  married  to  his  friend  and  favorite, 
Dr.  Grimshaw." 

"  You  put  the  case  gently  and  delicately,  dear  Edith,  but  the 
hard  truth  is  this — is  it  not — that  he  will  disinherit  you,  if  you 
consent  to  be  mine  ?  You  need  not  answer  me,  dearest  Edith, 
if  you  do  not  wish  to ;  but  listen — I  have  nothing  but  my 
sword,  and  beyond  my  boundless  love,  nothing  to  offer  you  but 
the  wayward  fate  of  a  soldier's  wife.  Your  eyes  are  full  of 
tears.  Speak,  Edith  Lance !  can  you  share  the  soldier's  wan- 
dering life  ?  Speak,  Edith,  or  lay  your  hand  in  mine.  Yet, 
no !  no !  no !  I  am  selfish  and  unjust.  Take  time,  love,  to 
think  of  all  you  abandon,  all  that  you  may  encounter  in  join- 
ing your  fate  to  mine.  God  knows  what  it  has  cost  me  to  say 
it — but — take  time,  Edith,"  and  he  pressed  and  dropped  her 
hand. 

"  T  do  not  need  to  do  so.  My  answer  to-day,  to-morrow, 
and  forever,  must  be  the  same,"  she  answered,  in  a  very  low 
voice ;  and  her  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  the  blush  deepened 
on  her  cheek,  as  she  laid  her  hand  in  his.  How  he  pressed  that 
white  hand  to  his  lips,  to  his  heart !  how  he  clasped  her  to  his 
breast  1  how  he  vowed  to  love  and  cherish  her  as  the  dearest 
treasure  of  his  life,  need  not  here  be  told. 

Edith  said, 

"  Now  take  me  in  to  uncle,  and  tell  him,  for  he  asked  me  not 
to  keep  him  in  suspense." 

Michael  led  her  into  the  hall,  where  the  Commodore  strode 
up  and  down,  making  the  old  rafters  tremble  and  quake  with 
every  tread — puffing — blowing  over  his  fallen  hopes,  like  a 
nor'-wester  over  the  dead  leaves. 

Michael  advanced,  holding  the  hand  of  his  affianced,  and 
modestly  announced  their  engagement. 

"  Humph  !  So  the  precious  business  is  concluded,  is  it  ?'' 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Michael,  with  a  bow. 


EDITH'S    TROUBLES.  83 

"Well,  I  hope  you  may  be  as  happy  as  you  deserve!  When 
is  the  proceeding  to  come  off  ?" 

"What,  sir?" 

"  The  marriage,  young  gentleman  ?" 

"When  shall  I  say,  dearest  Edith?"  asked  Michael,  stooping 
to  her  ear. 

"  When  uncle  pleases,"  murmured  the  girl. 

"Uncle  pleases  nothing,  and  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
except  to  advise  as  early  a  day  as  possible,"  he  blurted  out , 
"  what  says  the  bride  ?" 

"Answer,  dearest  Edith,"  entreated  Michael  Shields. 

"Then  let  it  be  at  New- Year,"  said  Edith,  falteringly. 

"Whew! — six  months  ahead!  Entirely  too  far  off!"  ex- 
claimed the  Commodore. 

"And  so  it  really  is,  beloved,"  whimpered  Michael. 

"  Let  it  be  next  week,"  abruptly  broke  in  the  Commodore. 
"  What's  the  use  of  putting  it  off  ?  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays 
are  the  marrying  days,  I  believe;  let  it  then  be  Tuesday  or 
Thursday." 

"Tuesday,"  pleaded  Michael. 

"  Thursday,"  murmured  Edith. 

"The  deuce! — if  you  can't  decide,  I  must  decide  for  you," 
growled  Old  Nick,  storming  down  towards  the  extremity  of  the 
hall,  and  roaring — "  Old  Hen !  Old  Hen  !  these  fools  are  to 
be  spliced  on  SUNDAY  !  Now  bring  me  my  pipe ;"  and  the  Com- 
modore withdrew  to  his  sanctum. 

Good  Henrietta  came  in,  took  the  hand  of  the  young  ensign, 
and  pressed  it  warmly,  saying  that  he  would  have  a  good 
wife,  and  wishing  them  both  much  happiness  in  their  union. 
She  drew  Edith  to  her  bosom,  and  kissed  her  fondly,  but  in 
silence. 

As  this  was  Friday  evening,  little  preparations  could  bo 
made  for  the  solemnity  to  take  place  on  Sunday.  Yet  Mrs. 
Henrietta  exerted  herself  to  do  all  possible  honor  to  the  occa- 
sion. That  very  evening  she  sent  out  a  few  invitations  to  the 
dinner  and  ball,  that  in  those  days  invariably  celebrated  a 


90  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

eoufitry  wedding.  She  even  invited  a  few  particular  friends  to 
meet  the  bridal  pair  at  dinner,  on  their  return  from  church. 

The  little  interval  between  this  and  Sunday  morning,  was 
passed  by  Edith  and  Shields  in  making  arrangements  for  their 
future  course. 

Sunday  came. 

A  young  lady  of  the  neighborhood  officiated  as  bridesmaid, 
and  Cloudesley  Mornington  as  groomsman.  The  ceremony  was 
to  be  performed  at  the  Episcopal  Church,  at  Charlotte  Hall. 
The  bridal  party  set  forward  in  two  carriages.  They  were 
attended  by  the  Commodore  and  Mrs.  Waugh.  They  reached 
the  church  at  an  early  hour,  and  the  marriage  was  solemnized 
before  the  morning  service.  When  the  entries  had  been  made, 
and  the  usual  congratulations  passed,  the  party  returned  to  the 
carriages.  Before  entering  his  own,  Commodore  Waugh  ap- 
proached that  in  which  the  bride  and  bridegroom  were  already 
seated,  and  into  which  the  groomsman  was  about  to  hand  the 
bridesmaid. 

"Stay,  you  two,  you  need  not  enter  just  yet,"  said  the  old 
man,  "  I  want  to  speak  with  Mr.  Shields  and  his  wife.  Edith  !" 

Edith  put  her  head  forward,  eagerly. 

"I  have  nothing  against  you;  but  after  what  has  occurred^ 
I  don't  want  to  see  you  at  Luckenough  again.  Good-bye !' 
Then  turning  to  Shields,  he  said,  "  I  will  have  your  own  and 
your  wife's  goods  forwarded  to  the  hotel,  here,"  and  nodding 
gruffly,  he  strode  away. 

Cloudesley  stormed,  Edith  begged  that  the  carriage  might  be 
delayed  yet  a  little  while.  Vain  Edith's  hope,  and  vain  Mrs. 
Waugh 's  expostulations,  Old  Nick  was  not  to  be  mollified.  He 
said  that  "those  who  pleased  to  remain  with  the  new-married 
couple,  might  do  so — he  should  go  home  !  They  did  as  they 
liked,  and  he  should  do  as  he  liked."  Mrs.  Waugh,  Cloudeslcy, 
and  the  bridesmaid  determined  to  stay. 

The  Commodore  entered  his  carriage,  and  was  driven  towards 
Home. 

The  party  then  adjourned  to  the  hotel.     Mrs.  Waugh  com- 


EDITH'S    TROUBLES.  91 

forting  Edith,  and  declaring  her  intention  to  stay  with  her  as 
long  as  she  should  remain  in  the  neighborhood — for  Henrietta 
always  did  as  she  pleased,  notwithstanding  the  opposition  of  her 
stormy  husband.  The  'young  bridesmaid  and  Cloudesley  also 
expressed  their  determination  to  stand  by  their  friends  to  the 
last. 

Their  patience  was  not  put  to  a  very  long  test.  In  a  few 
days  a  packet  was  to  sail  from  Benedict  to  Baltimore,  and  the 
young  couple  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity,  and  departed, 
with  the  good  wishes  of  their  few  devoted  friends. 

Their  destination  was  Toronto,  in  Canada,  where  the  young 
ensign's  regiment  was  quartered. 


PART     SECOND. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

SANS      SOUCI. 

«  A  little  child,  a  limber  elf, 
Sinking,  dancing  to  itself. 
A  fairy  thing,  with  red,  round  checks, 
That  always  finds  and  never  seeks. 
Makes  such  a  joy  unto  the  sight, 
As  fills  a  parent's  eyes  with  light."—  Oulcridge. 

bKVhKAL  miles  from  the  manor  of  Luckenough,  upou  a,  hill 
not  far  from  the  sea-coast,  stood  the  cottage  of  the  Old  Fields. 

There  was  nothing  sublime  or  beautiful,  or  in  any  respect 
attractive  about  the  place,  unless  indeed  the  very  dreariness  of 
its  aspect  might  have  a  curious  interest  for  the  chance  traveler. 

The  house  was  a  small,  square  edifice,  of  dingy  white,  shaded 
by  a  single  large  elm,  and  surrounded  by  a  somewhat  dilapi- 
dated fence. 

Around  it  on  all  sides  lay  exhausted  old  fields,  in  a  state  of 
almost  absolute  sterility. 

Beyond  them,  landward,  stretched  the  old  forest  of  St. 
Mary's,  and  seaward,  the  beach,  and  the  waters  of  the  bay. 

An  attempt  had  been  made  to  cultivate  the  miserable  soil 
nearest  the  house,  and  a  garden  of  half-blighted  vegetables,  and 
a  field  of  stunted  corn,  that  lay  withering  under  the  burning 
heat  of  an  August  sun,  added  to  the  unpromising  appearance 
of  the  whole.  lu  short,  nothing  could  be  more  desolate  and 
(92; 


SANSSOUCI.  93 

hopeless  than  the  aspect  of  Old  Fields'  Cottage,  at  the  time  of 
which  we  write. 

The  house  contained  but  two  rooms,  one  on  the  ground  floor, 
which  served  as  kitchen,  parlor,  and  sitting-room,  and  one  just 
above,  which,  being  nothing  more  than  a  loft,  was,  nevertheless, 
the  sleeping  apartment  of  the  whole  family. 

The  property  was  an  appendage  to  the  Manor  of  Luck- 
enough,  and  was  at  this  time  occupied  by  a  poor  relation  of 
Commodore  Waugh,  his  niece,  Mary  L'Oiseau,  the  widow  of  a 
French  emigree.  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  had  but  one  child,  a  little  girl, 
Jacquelina,  now  about  eight  or  nine  years  of  age. 

Commodore  Waugh  had  given  them  the  cottage  to  live  in, 
with  permission  to  make  a  living,  if  they  could,  out  of  the  poor 
laud  attached  to  it.  This  was  all  the  help  he  had  afforded  his 
poor  niece,  and  all,  as  she  said,  that  she  could  reasonably  ex- 
pect from  one  who  had  so  many  dependants.  For  several  years 
past  the  little  property  had  ail'orded  her  a  bare  subsistence. 

And  now  this  year  the  long  drought  had  parched  up  her 
garden  and  corn-field,  and  her  cows  had  failed  in  their  yield  of 
luiik  for  the  want  of  grass. 

It  was  upon  a  dry  and  burning  day,  near  the  last  of  August, 
that  Mary  L'Oiseau  and  her  daughter  sat  down  to  their  frugal 
breakfast.  And  such  a  frugal  breakfast !  the  cheapest  tea,  with 
brown  sugar,  and  a  corn  cake  baked  upon  the  griddle,  and  a 
little  butter — that  was  all !  It  was  spread  upon  a  plain  pine  table 
without  a  table-cloth. 

The  furniture  of  the  room  was  in  keeping — a  sanded  floor,  a 
chest  of  drawers,  with  a  small  looking-glass,  ornamented  bv  a 
sprig  of  asparagus,  a  dresser  of  rough  pine  shelves  on  the 
right  of  the  fii'e-place,  and  a  cupboard  on  the  left,  a  half-dozen 
chip-bottomed  chairs,  a  spinning-wheel,  and  a  reel  and  jack, 
completed  the  appointments. 

The  heart  of  the  widow  was  sore,  too  sore  for  comfort  or 
hope,  as  she  sat  down  to  the  table — for  poor  as  this  meal  was, 
it  was  almost  the  last,  and  there  was  no  hope.  And  now  not 
even  the  jrlud  beauty  of  her  charming,  though  willful  child,  her 


94  THE      MISSIXG      BRIDE. 

little  Jacqnelina,  nor  the  quaint  talk  of  Jenny,  who  had  come 
over  that  morning  from  Luckenough,  could  divert  her  from  her 
sadness. 

•'  Look  yer,  Miss  Mary !  Don't  you  set  down  dere  in  idle- 
ness, an'  'spair  'an  'cuse  Providence,  'cause  fortin  donrt  come 
an'  walk  into  de  door.  You  up  an'  try  somet'in'." 

"  Why  what  can  I  try,  Jenny  ?" 

"  Anyt'in' — 'ply  to  Congress  for  a  penance  for  what  yer  fa- 
ther did  in  the  Rebelutionary  War!" 

Mary  laughed  now,  but  answered,  gravely, 

"  I  do  not  think  I  like  such  things — it's  troublesome  and  ex- 
pensive, and  if  we  should  get  anything,  which  is  doubtful,  there 
are  eight  brothers  and  sisters  of  us,  among  whom  the  pittance 
would  have  to  be  divided,  and  it  wouldn't  be  the  least  worth 
while." 

"  Trufe  is,  Old  Marse  ought  to  do  more  for  you  'an  he  does  !' 

"  How  can  he  ?  He  educates  his  two  nephews,  Cloudesley 
Moruington  and  Thurston  Willcoxen,  and  helps  a  good  many 
others  besides." 

"I  don't  care!  I  don't  care,  Miss  Mary!  He  got  plenty! 
An'  he's  yer  own  flesh  an'  blood.  An'  I  were  you  I'd  take 
my  chile,  an'  I'd  go  to  Luckenough,  an'  I'd  sit  right  down  on 
top  o'  Old  Nick  Waugh  for  the  rest  o'  my  days ! — that  I  would  ! 
'deed  me !  Case  he  daren't  'ny  you  the  shelter  of  his  ruff,  no 
way,  an'  you  a  lady,  an'  his  'lation,  too." 

"  Why,  do  you  really  suppose  I  could  do  such  a  dishono- 
rable, bold,  obtrusive  thing  as  that,  Jenny?  I  would  starve  to 
death  first," 

"  Well,  chile,  everybody  to  their  tastes.  I  shouldn't  'fer  to 
mrve  wyself.  Deed  me !  Well !  anyhow,  here's  a  'pistle  de 
Commodore  sont  yer." 

"A  letter!  Why  you  never  said  a  word  about  having  a 
letter  for  me!" 

"  Lor',  chile,  to  be  sure.  Why  what  you  think  I  come  all  de 
way  over  her'  if  it  wa'n't  for  to  bring  a  letter  or — somet'in'  ?" 
said  Jenny,  fumbling  in  her  bosom,  and  producing  the  missive 

"And  why  didn't  you  give  it  to  me  before?'' 


SANSSCTTCT.  95 

"  Oh !  taint  no  quinsequonce  !  I  know'd  it  wur  nuffin'  hut 
about  Miss  Edy's  goiu'  an'  marryin'  o'  the  Britisher  1  Sure 
he  don't  do  nuffin'  'tall  but  talk  about  it,  an'  write  about  it,  an' 
I  thought  how  I'd  jest  leave  you  finish  your  breakfast  'fore  I 
Bturved  your  mind  wid  sich !"  said  Jenny,  with  a  shrug. 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  was  devouring  the  contents  of  the  letter,  which 
ran  thus — 

"  Mary,  My  Dear !  I  feel  as  if  I  had  somewhat  neglected 
you,  but,  the  truth  is,  my  arm  is  not  long  enough  to  stretch 
from  Luckenough  to  Old  Fields.  That  being  the  case,  and 
myself  and  Old  Hen  being  rather  lonesome  since  Edith's  ungrate- 
ful desertion,  we  beg  you  to  take  little  Jacko,  and  come  and 
live  with  us  as  long  as  we  may  live — and  of  what  may  come 
after  that  we  will  talk  at  some  other  time.  If  you  will  be  ready 
I  will  send  the  carriage  for  you  on  Saturday. 

"Your  Uncle  Nick." 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  read  this  letter  with  a  changing  cheek — when 
she  finished  it  she  folded  and  laid  it  aside  in  silence.  As  her 
humble  old  friend,  Jenny,  knew  nothing  of  its  contents,  she  did 
not  feel  quite  justified  in  informing  her  just  yet. 

"It  was  about  Miss  Edy's  going  away,  wa'n't  it,  Miss 
Mary  ?" 

"Yes." 

"/knowedit!" 

Here  the  conversation  dropped.  And,  Jenny,  after  kindly 
remaining  "to  clear  up  the  breakfast  things,"  took  her  leave  and 
her  departure. 

Then  Mary  called  to  her  side  her  child — her  Jacquelina — her 
Sans  Souci — as  for  her  gay,  thoughtless  temper  she  was  called. 
I  should  here  describe  the  mother  and  daughter  to  you.  The 
mother  needs  little  description — a  pale,  black-haired,  black-eyed 
woman,  who  should  have  been  blooming  and  sprightly,  but  that 
care  had  damped  her  spirits,  and  cankered  the  roses  in  her 
cheeks. 

But  Jacquelina — Sans  Souci — merits  a  better  portrait. 

She  was  small  and  slight  for  her  years,  and,  though  really 


96  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

near  nine,  would  have  been  taken  for  six  or  seven.  She  \va3 
fair-skinned,  blue-eyed  and  golden-haired.  And  her  countenance, 
fall  of  spirit,  courage,  and  audacity.  As  she  would  dart  her 
face  upward  towards  the  sun,  her  round,  smooth,  highly  polished 
white  forehead  would  seem  to  laugh  in  light  between  its  cluster- 
ing curls  of  burnished  gold,  that,  together  with  the  little,  slightly 
turned  up  nose,  and  short,  slightly  protruded  upper  lip,  gave 
the  charm  of  inexpressible  archness  to  the  most  mischievous 
countenance  alive.  In  fact  her  whole  form,  features,  expression, 
and  gestures  seemed  instinct  with  mischief — mischief  larked  in 
the  kinked  tendrils  of  her  bright  hair ;  mischief  looked  out  and 
laughed  in  the  merry,  malicious  blue  eyes  ;  mischief  crept  slyly 
over  the  bows  of  her  curbed  and  ruby  lips  ;  and  mischief  played 
at  hide  and  seek  among  the  rosy  dimples  of  her  blooming 
cheeks. 

Her  eager,  restless  spirit  gave  a  startling  quickness,  abrupt- 
ness, and  eccentricity  to  all  her  motions ;  yet  such  was  the 
ineffable  grace  of  every  movement,  uniting  smoothness  with 
swiftness,  that  she  reminded  the  beholder  of  some  beautiful  bird 
or  frolicsome  kid. 

She  seldom  walked,  but  ran  or  darted  like  a  lap-wing — with 
this  peculiarity — her  figure  leaning  forward,  and  her  bright 
head  dipping  downward  in  the  swiftness  of  her  flight. 

She  would  generally  impress  you  with  two  distinct  feelings. 

When  she  happened  to  be  still — with  the  idea  of  danger,  a3 
in  the  proximity  of  gunpowder,  an  evil  spirit,  or,  at  the  very 
least,  of  a  most  artful  and  dangerous  monkey,  whose  devices  it 
were  impossible  to  foresee,  or  forestall. 

And  when  she  chanced  to  be  active,  she  inspired  you  with 
the  hunter's  instinct  to  chase,  catch,  and  delight  in  her  capture, 
just  as  if  she  had  been  some  wild  bird  darting  from  bush  to  bush, 
or  some  wanton  doe  abandoning  herself  to  a  delirium  of  play. 
Upon  the  present  occasion,  Madam  L'Oiseau  found  Sans  Souci 
swinging  up  and  down  upon  the  lowest  limber  branch  of  the  old 
elm  that  overshadowed  the  house.  She  called  her  in,  and  with 
scarcely  restrained  joy,  communicated  to  her  the  contents  of  her 


SANSSOUCI.  9T 

uncle's  note,  and  the  vague  hopes  of  future  inheritance  they  in 
spired — concluding  with, 

"  Now,  Jacquelina,  you  must  cure  yourself  of  these  hoydenish 
tricks  of  yours  before  you  expose  them  to  your  uncle — remember 
how  whimsical  and  eccentric  he  is." 

"So  am  1 1  Just  as  whimsical!  I'll  do  him  dirt,"  said  the 
young  lady. 

"  Good  Heaven !  Where  did  you  ever  pick  up  such  a  phrase, 
aud  what  upon  earth  does  doing  any  one  '  dirt '  mean  ?"  asked  the 
very  much  shocked  lady. 

"  I  mean  I'll  grind  his  nose  on  the  ground,  I'll  hurry  him  and 
worry  him,  and  upset  him,  and  cross  him,  and  make  him  run  his 
head  against  the  wall,  and  butt  his  blundering  brains  out.  What 
did  he  turn  Fair  Edith  away  for?  Oh!  Ptt  pay  him  off!  Pll 
settle  with  him !  Fair  Edith  shan't  be  in  his  debt  for  her  injuries 
very  long." 

From  her  pearly  brow  and  pearly  cheeks,  "  Fair  Edith"  was 
the  name  by  which  the  child  had  heard  her  cousin  once  called, 
and  she  had  called  her  thus  ever  since. 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  answered  gravely, 

"  Your  uncle  gave  Edith  a  fair  choice  between  his  own  love 
and  protection,  and  the  great  benefits  he  had  in  store  for  her, 
and  the  love  of  a  stranger  and  foreigner,  whom  he  disapproved 
and  hated.  Edith  deliberately  chose  the  latter.  And  your 
uncle  had  a  perfect  right  to  act  upon  her  unwise  decision." 

"  And  for  my  part  Iknow  he  hadn't — all  of  my  own  thoughts. 
Oh!  I'll  do  him—" 

"  Hush  !  Jacquelina.  You  shall  not  use  such  expressions. 
So  much  comes  of  my  letting  you  have  your  own  way,  running 
down  to  the  beach  and  watching  the  boats,  aud  hearing  the  vul- 
gar talk  of  the  fishermen." 

"I  know  a  tall  young  waterman— 
I  know  a  handsome  waterman — 
I  Know  a  jolly  waterman 
That  sails  upon  the  .sea!" 

sang  the  fairy,  shaking  her  golden  curls  in  the  greatest  glee. 


THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

She  had  a  most  beautiful  voice,  that  gave  an  ineffable  charm 
even  to  the  most  common-place  words  and  air. 

"  There  1  oh,  Mary  I  just  listen  to  her!  all  sorts  of  low  songs 
and  catches  I  Well !  thank  Heaven,  all  this  will  be  changed 
when  you  get  to  Luckenough !  Dear  me,  I  can  hardly  realize 
that  we  are  going  there.  I  don't  realize  it  at  all.  It  will  be  a 
very  great  change.  Well,  thank  Heaven,  at  any  rate  it  will  be 
nearer  the  church,  and  we  shall  have  the  use  of  a  carriage,  and 
can  go  every  Sunday.  And,  perhaps,  your  uncle  will  send  you 
to  school  or  get  a  teacher  for  you  into  the  house.  And  who 
knows  but  he  will  make  you  his  heiress,  Jacquelina !  You 
must  try  to  please  him." 

"  I'd  as  soon  try  to  please  Old  Satan  !  And  all  to  get  his 
money,  too  !  Do  you  think  I'd  try  to  cut  Fair  Edith  out  ?  Oh  I 
Mimniy !" 

"Don't  say  'cut-out,'  that  is  low,  too;  say  undermine — but 
it  will  not  be  undermining  Edith.  She  has  already,  through 
her  foolish  attachment  to  that  young  man,  lost  her  inheritance." 

"I  don't  think  Fair  Edith  was  foolish  at  all.  He  was  nice, 
and  he  wore,  oh  !  such  a  beautiful  coat !  And  I  don't  wonder 
Fair  Edith  loved  him.  For,  indeed,  I  loved  him  myself.  And 
I  shall  tell  uncle  so,  too,  if  he  asks  me." 

"  You'll  spoil  your  fortune,  that  I  see  plainly  enough,  if  I 
let  you  go  on  so." 

"  I'll  spoil  uncle's  notion  of  his.  He  shan't  think  his  fortune 
*s  everything  to  bribe  everybody  to  do  everything  he  pleases, 
right  or  wrong !"  .answered  the  willful  elf,  with  that  graceful 
dip  of  her  head,  as  she  suddenly  darted  out  of  the  doors  and 
ran — no  one  knew  whither — it  was  one  of  her  tricks. 

"  Saaa  Souci"  was  an  excessively  fascinating,  and,  there- 
fore, d  thoroughly  spoiled  child.  Her  willfulness  had  such 
co^iage  and  candor  and  honesty  in  it — and  such  a  witching 
grace,  as  disarmed  her  very  gravest  mentors.  This  was  unfor- 
tunate, as  her  willfulness  was  impulsive  rather  than  obstinate, 
and  by  steady,  firm,  and  gentle  discipline,  might  have  been 
overcome,  or,  at  least,  modified  and  guided.  As  it  was,  it  was 


SANSSOUCI.  99 

rnltivaU'd  until  it  grew  and  flourished  a  very  strong  weed  in 
the  garden  of  her  soul — often  graceful  and  beautiful,  it  is  true, 
but  also  noxious  to  the  health  of  all  the  flowers  of  beauty  and 
goodness  implanted  by  God  and  nature  there.  Do  not  blame 
my  poor  little  "  Careless  " — blame  her  mother,  her  pastors  and 
masters,  if  you  please,  but  not  herself  too  much.  Life  lay  be- 
fore her  with  its  awful  chastisements.  And  be  sure  that  the 
plant  of  bitterness  that  might  have  been  so  easily  drawn  up 
from  the  yielding  soil  of  her  child-bosom,  but  had  been  permit- 
ted to  strike  deep,  strong  roots  in  her  heart,  would  be  up- 
rooted and  torn  forth  some  time  by  the  hand  of  life,  though 
the  lacerated  bosom  should  bleed  itself  to  death. 

OH  Saturday,  at  the  hour  specified,  the  carriage  came  to  Old 
Field  Cottage,  and  conveyed  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  and  her  child  to 
Luckcuough.  They  were  very  kindly  received  by  the  Commo- 
dore, and  affectionately  embraced  by  Henrietta,  who  conducted 
them  to  a  pleasant  room,  where  they  could  lay  off  their  bon- 
nets, and  which  they  were  thenceforth  to  consider  as  their  own 
apartment.  This  was  not  the  one  which  had  been  occupied  by 
Edith.  Edith's  chamber  had  been  left  undisturbed  and  locked 
up  by  Mrs.  Waugh,  and  was  kept  ever  after  sacred  to  her 
memory. 

The  sojourn  of  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  and  Jacqnelina  at  Luckenough 
was  an  experiment  on  the  part  of  the  Commodore.  He  did 
not  mean  to  commit  himself  hastily,  as  in  the  case  of  his  sudden 
choice  of  Edith  as  his  heiress.  He  intended  to  take  a  good, 
long  time  for  what  he  called  "  mature  deliberation" — often  one 
of  the  greatest  enemies  to  upright,  generous,  and  disinterested 
action — to  hope,  faith,  and  charity,  that  I  know  of,  by  the  way. 
Commodore  Waugh  also  determined  to  have  his  own  will  in  all 
tilings,  this  time  at  least  He  had  the  vantage  ground  now, 
and  was  resolved  to  keep  it.  He  had  caught  Sans  Souci 
younn,  before  she  could  possibly  have  formed  even  a  childish 
predilection  for  one  of  the  opposite  sex,  and  he  was  determined 
io  raise  and  educate  a  wife  for  his  beloved  Grim'.  Grim'  could 


100  THE      MISSIXG      BRIDE. 

certainly  wait  six  or  seven  years  for  the  sake  of  a  great  estatu 
and  a  young  wife,  and  in  six  or  seven  years  the  child  of  nine 
would  be  marriageable,  he  thought — his  wish,  of  course,  "  was 
father  to  that  thought."  And  in  the  meantime  he  resolved  to 
keep  such  a  watch  over  Jacquelina,  that  no  fascinating  young 
officer,  nor  anybody  else,  should  run  away  with  her  heart.  And 
all  these  counsels  he  kept  to  himself — not  trussing  even  Hen- 
rietta with  them.  He  sent  Jacquelina  to  school  at  C . 

She  went  every  morning  on  a  pony,  with  a  servant  to  attend 
her,  and  to  remain  in  the  village  all  day,  and  to  bring  her  home 
at  night.  This  continued  through  the  summer  and  fall,  but 
towards  winter,  when  the  roads  began  to  be  very  bad,  it 
was  necessarily  discontinued.  It  was  a  part  of  Commodore 
Waugh's  plan  not  to  send  Sans  Souci  away  from  home,  or  to 
lot  her  out  of  his  own  surveillance.  Therefore  upon  the  en- 
forced suspension  of  her  attendance  at  school,  he  was  very 
much  embarrassed  as  to  how  he  should  proceed  with  her  edu- 
cation. At  length  a  bright  thought  struck  him.  Professor 

Grimshaw  had  lately  returned  to   C Academy,  after  an 

absence  of  several  months.  Dr.  Grimshaw  would,  doubtless, 
resume  his  semi-weekly  visits  to  Luckenough,  for  no  bad  wea- 
ther or  bad  roads  had  ever  yet  deterred  him.  Well  1  when 
next  Grim'  came  to  the  house,  Old  Nick  would  let  him  some- 
what into  his  plans,  and  engage  him  upon  every  visit  to  set 
lessons  to  Jacquelina,  which  she  should  learn  in  the  intervals, 
and  to  take  the  general  supervision  of  her  education.  The 
longer  he  contemplated  this  plan  the  better  he  liked  it,  and  the 
more  he  improved  it.  Dr.  Grimshaw  should  also  be  Jacque- 
lina's  escort  from  church  every  Sunday,  when  he  usually  ac- 
companied the  family  home  to  dinner.  And  this  was  the  way 
he  should  manage  that.  Jacquelina  should  no  longer  go  with 
himself  and  his  wife  in  the  carriage — she  should  ride  the  pony, 
and  as  Grim'  also  always  rode  horseback,  he  would  thus  be 
obliged  to  escort  the  only  equestrian  female  of  the  party.  Oh, 
he  knew  how  to  manage,  he  chuckled  to  himself!  he  xould  so 
betimes  accustom  Sans  Souci  to  Grim'  that  she  would  not  be 


SANS      SOUCI.  101 

able  to  do  without  him,  and  so  drill  her  into  the  idea  that  he 
was  to  be  her  future  husband,  that  she  should  not  be  able  to 
dream  of  anybody  else  in  that  relation.  Meanwhile  the  Com- 
modore became  very  fond  of  his  little  "  Thoughtless,"  and  she 
began  to  like  her  uncle's  petting  and  caressing  so  much  as  to 
forget  her  resolution  "  to  pay  him  for  his  behavior  to  Edith," 
and  took  no  unusual  pains  to  annoy  him.  But,  alas,  without 
any  painstaking,  and  by  merely  following  out  her  impulses, 
Sans  Souci  annoyed  the  old  man  excessively.  And  his  trou- 
bles increased  in  proportion  with  his  love  for  the  hare-brained 
child.  For  one  thing,  she  was  incessantly  running  herself  into 
danger,  that  kept  her  self-constituted  guardian  in  perpetual 
tremors.  Then  she  was  always  starting  forbidden  subjects,  or 
making  terribly  unfortunate  speeches,  which  always  shocked 
Henrietta,  enraged  the  Commodore,  and  kept  her  poor  mother 
on  the  qui  vive. 

For  instance,  after  her  first  night  at  Luckenough,  in  the 
morning,  at  breakfast,  her  uncle  asked  her, 

"Well,  Flibbertigibbet  1  how  did  you  like  your  hammock 
and  quarters  ?" 

"  Hammock  and  quarters  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  bed  and  your  room,  I  mean  ?" 

"  Oh  !  why,  not  at  all !  it  was  very  large  and  gloomy — it  smelt 
dreadfully  damp  and  musty,  and  the  rats  and  mice  ran  about  in 
the  walls  so  much,  that  I  could  not  sleep  a  wink!  Say,  uncle, 
mother  says  you  may  leave  this  old  house  to  me,  when  you  die. 
Now,  please  don't,  for  indeed  I  wouldn't  live  in  it  for  anything 
in  the  world,  and  if  ever  you  give  it  to  me,  I  shall  just  set  fire 
to  it  and  burn  it  down,  as  sure  as  you  do  1" 

Here  was  an  explosion  !  The  Commodore  darted  a  look  of 
rage  at  poor  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  who  blushed  violently,  and  faltered 
out,  that  she  had  only  meant  to  bribe  Jacquelina  into  being  a 
good  girl — that  she,  for  herself,  desired  and  expected  nothing 
of  the  sort,  of  course — heaven  forbid !  The  Commodore  would 
not  affront  a  mdy,  and  his  relative,  at  his  own  board.  He 
gulped  down  his  anger  as  he  could,  and  abruptly  rose  from  his 


102  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

seat,  and  left  the  table.  And  it  was  some  time  before  be  re- 
covered his  serenity. 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  led  her  child  to  her  own  room,  and  com- 
menced a  tearful  expostulation  with  her  upon  the  subject  of  her 
habitual  thoughtlessness,  and  the  continual  mischief  that  it 
caused.  Sans  Souci  gazed  at  her  mother  in  the  utmost  amaze- 
ment, 

"  Why,  mother,  what  did  I  say  ?  How  should  it  have  mado 
such  trouble '" 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  attempted  to  make  her  understand.     In  vain  ! 

"  I  only  repeated  your  own  words,  Mimmy — how  could  they 
have  been  improper  ?" 

And  upon  one  particular  Sabbath  day,  Sans  Souci  fell  into 
an  unprecedented  number  of  mistakes  and  misfortunes.  The 
whole  family  at  Luckenough,  with  the  exception  of  herself,  had 
remained  at  home,  but  she  was  sent  to  church  for  the  whole 
day  in  charge  of  Doctor  Grirashaw,  who  was  one  of  the  teachers 
of  the  Sunday-school.  And  the  restless  fairy  had  felt  herself 
dreadfully  bored  by  the  long  catechism  lessons  of  the  morning, 
the  longer  service  and  sermon  of  the  forenoon,  and  the  repeti- 
tion of  the  whole  matter  in  the  afternoon.  So  she  arrived 
home  in  the  evening  thoroughly  exasperated  by  the  confine- 
ment and  discipline  of  the  day.  She  met  the  family  circle  at 
the  supper  table.  Doctor  Grimshaw,  after  having  brought  her 
home,  had  departed. 

"  Well,  Jacko !  who  did  you  see  at  church  ?"  asked  her  uncle, 
pinching  her  ear. 

"Jacko"  twitched  herself  away,  impatiently  exclaiming, 

"All  the  people!  Such  a  dismal  looking  set!  I  don't  want 
to  go  there  again!  I  wont,  neither!  There,  now!" 

"  Why,  Monkey,  I'm  sure  Doctor  Grimshaw  is  a  very  pleasant 
looking  gentleman  !" 

"No  he  isn't,  neither!  He  is  worse  than  all  the  rest!  a 
long-legged,  black  old  Ogr<;  He  tired  me  to  death  with  hard 
questions  at  the  Sunday-school.  He  made  me  learn  '  Tlie 
Seven  Deadly  Sins'  before  he  would  let  me  go  out!''  exclaimed 
Jacquelina,  indignantly. 


SANS      SOUCI.  103 

"Well,  but,  Lapwing!  didn't  he  reward  you  for  it?  Didn't 
be  give  you  those  pretty  pictures  I  saw  you  put  between  the 
leaves  of  your  mass  book  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Henrietta. 

"  S'pose  I  did,  I  put  them  there  to  get  them  out  of  my  sight. 
Pretty  pictures,  indeed !  They  are  not  pretty  at  all !  Ugly 
things.  Sorrowful  women  shrouded  in  black,  with  the  whites 
of  their  eyes  turned  up  !  And  horrid  old  men  in  ugly  hoods, 
with  skulls  and  cross-bones  before  them  1  Pretty  ?  Ugh  !'y 
exclaimed  Jacquelina,  shuddering. 

"  My  dear  child,  it  is  very  sinful  in  you  to  talk  in  that  way — 
they  were  pictures  of  blessed  saints  and  holy  hermits,"  said 
Mrs.  L'Oiseau. 

"  Were  they  ?  Well,  now,  how  was  I  to  know  they  were 
blessed  and  holy,  when  they  looked  so  wicked  and  miserable  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  child,  my  child,  couldn't  you  read  the  inscriptions 
under  them  ?" 

"  No,  how  could  I  ?     They  were  in  Dutch  !" 

"  In  Latin,  my  dear!  In  Latin!  the  universal  language  of 
the  church." 

"  Well,  it's  all  one  to  me,  who  don't  know  a  word  of  what  it 
means — only  I  know  it  all  makes  me  sad  and  angry,  and  I 
dreadfully  hate  'The  Seven  Deadly  Sins,'  and  black  shrouds 
and  turned  up  eyes,  and  skulls  and  cross-bones — I  do !  There  1" 

"  What  is  the  next  lesson  you  have  to  learn  in  the  cate- 
chism !" 

"Why  you  know  just  what  comes  next — the  Tour  Sins  that 
cry  to  Heaven  for  Vengeance.'  And  Doctor  Grimshaw  said  if 
I  would  learn  them  well  by  next  Sunday,  he  would  give  me 
another  picture.  And  he  showed  it  to  me.  It  was  another 
blessed  picture  of  a  man  roasting  on  a  gridiron !"  exclaimed 
Sans  Souci,  as  near  bursting  into  tears  as  the  fairy  could  be. 
"  But  I  wont  learn  the  '  Four  Sins  that  cry  to  Heaven  for 
Vengeance'  to  please  nobody — indeed  wont  I !  and  then  to 
have  a  premium  of  a  man  roasting  on  a  gridiron !  It  make? 
my  head  open  and  shut  to  think  about  it!  And  I  can't  stand 
it  no  how,  indeed  can't  I,  that's  flat !  I  wish  I  was  a  boy,  and 


104  THE      MISSI.IG      BRIDE. 

I'd  run  away  and  seek  my  fortune  like  Jack,  that  I  would  1 
Cloudy  Morning,  he's  going  to  sea,  he  says.  And  if  people 
don't  leave  me  be,  with  their  skulls  and  cross-bones,  and  roasted 
men,  I'll  put  myself  in  boy's  clothes  and  run  away,  and  be  a 
sailor,  too !  that  I  will  I" 

The  Commodore  roared  with  laughter — he  always  did  at 
j§ans  Souci's  willfulness,  when  it  did  not  come  in  contact  with 
his  own. 

But  the  tears  rushed  to  Mrs.  L'Oiseau's  eyes,  and  she  began 
to  expostulate,  saying, 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  ray  dear  little  girl,  don't,  don't  talk  so  rudely 
and  violently.  I  know,  of  course,  you  never  in  the  world  could 
do  anything  like  that,  but  still,  don't  talk  of  such  horrid  things, 
my  dear.  You  must  be  sweet,  and  gentle  and  docile,  like 
the  dear  little  children  of  the  Nuns'  school  that  you  saw  in 
church  to-day." 

"  What  were  they  all  dressed  in  white  for,  Mirnmy  ?"  asked 
Jacquelina,  curiously. 

"Why,  their  white  dresses  were  emblematic  of  their  spotless 
innocence." 

"Urnph — hum!  I  know  now.  And — were  the  black  dresses 
of  the  nuns  emblematic  of  the — oiherT"1 

"  Oh,  you  wicked  child !  No,  they  wear  black  as  a  badge 
of  their  retirement  from  the  world,  and  their  devotion  to 
heaven." 

"  Is  black  the  favorite  color  in  heaven,  Mimmy  ?" 

"  Jacquelina,  I  have  heard  it  said  that  a  child  can  ask  more 
questions  in  a  minute  than  a  sage  can  answer  in  a  century,  and 
I  believe  it." 

"And  that's  what  you  so  often  tell  me,  Mimmy !  Nobody 
ever  did  answer  all  my  questions,  and  take  pains  to  give  me 
satisfaction,  except  Fair  Edith !  but  then  there  were  few  like 
her!  Sorrow  the  day  she  went  away !" 

The  master  of  the  house,  who  had  been  laughing  until  this 
moment,  now  suddenly  changed  his  countenance,  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  and  looking  sternly  at  his  little  niece,  said, 


SANS      SOUCI.  105 

"  That  is  a  name  I  never  permit  to  be  mentioned  by  any  one 
under  this  roof  I" 

Sans  Souci  pursed  up  her  lips,  and  stretched  her  eyes. 

"  Indeed  !"  she  said.  "  That's  mighty  unlucky  now !  because 
1  had  rather  talk  about  Fair  Edith  than  repeat  the  prettiest 
verses,  and  I'm  sure  I  shall  never  remember  to  forget  her." 

"You  had  better  do  so,  Miss,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  Com- 
modore. 

"Oh!  Jacquelina!"  exclaimed  her  mother,  in  a  low,  anxious 
voice. 

"  Now,  uncle,  and  now  Mimmy,  s'pose  I  was  to  forget  to 
talk  about  Fair  Edith,  that  wouldn't  prevent  other  people  from 
talking,  and  they  do  talk  a  plenty  now,  I  tell  you  1" 

The  Commodore  pricked  up  his  ears — he  was  rather  sensitive 
to  public  opinion.  Jacquelina  was  quick  to  perceive  it — she 
went  on  maliciously, 

"  Yes !  they  were  talking  about  it  in  church,  between  the 
morning  and  the  afternoon  services,  to-day." 

"  Humph  !  Impudent,  meddlesome  fools!  As  if  it  were  the 
least  consequence  to  me  what  they  thought  or  said  1  But  who 
were  they  then,  Monkey  ?" 

"I  don't  know!  Gentlemen,  I  s'pose.  Some  of  the  Big 
Wigs,  as  Cloudy  Morning  calls  them,  I  reckon." 

"  Humph  !  Rascals  !  And  what  were  they  saying,  Worth- 
less ?  Not  that  I  care,  of  course  !  but  what  was  it  ?" 

"Why,  they  all  agreed  that  you  were  an  old  brute,  to  be- 
have as  you  did  to  Fair  Edith  Lance.  But  that  it  was  just 
like  you — that  you  always  were  an  ugly  old  beast,  every  way !" 

"  What !  they  abused  your  uncle  before  your  face  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  you  are  a  ready-witted  little  wretch  !  Your  tongue 
has  quite  a  sharp  edge  to  it !  What  did  you  say  in  my  de 
lence  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all  I" 

"  And  why  not,  Jackanapes  ?  or  Jill-anapes  !  why  not  ?" 

"  Because  I  knew  they  were  telling  the  truth  1" 


106  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

"What!" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  I"  cried  Mrs.  L'Oiseau. 

"  Never  mind.  Let  her  talk !  Her  tongue  will  cut  off  her 
head  yet." 

"No,  uncle,  it  will  only  cut  off  my  inheritance,"  said  Jacque- 
lina,  who,  child  as  she  was,  had  thoroughly  learned  the  meaning 
of  that  phrase. 

This  shocked  them  all  into  silence  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
the  Commodore  spoke  again. 

"  And  pray,  Miss,  am  I  to  understand  that  you  also  think  me 
u  brute,  to  act  as  I  did  in  the  case  of  Edith  ?" 

Sans  Souci  stretched  her  eyes  to  the  widest  extent,  in  sincere 
astonishment,  and  after  a  little  pause,  replied, 

"  Why,  uncle,  to  be  sure  I  do!  What  could  I  think  but  the 
truth  ?" 

"There  goes  the  very  last  hope  of  an  inheritance,"  thought 
Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  as  she  arose  from  the  table  in  great  distress, 
aud  apologizing  for  her  child's  rashness  as  well  as  she  could, 
led  her  away  to  their  room,  and  sitting  down  upon  the  bed, 
began  to  sob. 

"  Oh,  my  child!  my  dear!  my  Jacquelinal  You  have  ruined 
yourself — and  you'll  be  sent  back,  with  your  mother,  to  starve, 
at  Old  Fields — or  at  the  very  best,  to  grow  up  in  ignorance 
and  poverty!" 

"  Don't  cry,  Mimmy !     Pm  not  afraid  !" 

"Oh,  Sans  Sauci !  Sans  Souci!  Well  might  your  poor  fa- 
ther call  you  Sans  Souci !'  " 

"  Mother,  what  is  the  meaning  of  Sans  Souci  ?     Is  it  Saint 

"  No,  my  poor  dear,  nor  Sane  Susan  neither,  you  poor  little 

goose." 

"  What  is  it  then,  and  why  am  I  called  so  ?" 

"Because  it  is  just  what   you   are — one  'without  care' — 

'  without  thought.'    I'm  sure  you  deserve  the  name  ?    Oh,  Sans 

Souci !  Sans  Souci !  you've  ruined  us  both  !     I  don't  mind  for 

myself,  but.  you,  child,  you!" 

« 


SANS      S  0  U  C  I.  107 

"Don't  cry,  Mimmy!  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid!  Lord!  he  can't 
do  without  me !  I  make  him  laugh — nobody  else  ever  does." 

"  There's  something  in  that,  maybe.  But  you  must  be  very 
polite  and  attentive  to  Professor  Grimshaw;  you  must  try  to 
please  him — because  he  is  a  great  favorite  with  your  uncle. " 

"And  I'm  a  great  favorite  with  him,  Mimmy!  And  if  he 
would  only  stop  teaching  me  the  seven  deadly  sins  and  the  rest 
of  it,  I  should  like  him  so  much  !" 

"  Who,  Professor  Grimshaw,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mimmy." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  didn't  like  him  ?" 

"  Oh  !  but  I  do!  he  is  so  stiff  and  solemn  and  dark  and  lan- 
tern-jawed— and  so  comical  looking — and  so  like  the  picture  of 
the  Ogre,  in  the  fairy  tales,  that  I  can't  help  laughing  every 
time  I  look  at  him !  And  he  likes  me,  too,  only  he  never 
laughs  at  me  ;  he  never  laughs  at  all — now  that  is  so  funny." 

"  It  is  because  he  has  got  a  grave,  serious  sort  of  character. 
You  must  try  to  be  serious,  too.  This  is  a  very  serious  world, 
we  live  in." 

"  Now,  Mimmy,  I  think  it  is  the  very  funniest  world  that  ever 
was  heard  of !" 

"Be  serious,  my  child!  this  is  a  very  serious  life  we  lead. 
And  you  must  try  to  please  a  serious  man  like  Professor  Grim- 
shaw, by  attending  to  serious  things — the  sermons  that  you 
hear,  for  instance  !  Now  I'll  warrant  Dr.  Grimshaw,  if  he 
should  come  to-morrow,  would  ask  you  about  the  sermon  to- 
day. And  I'm  afraid  you  could  not  tell  him  one  word  of  it." 

"  I  had  reason  to  mind  it !" 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it ;  but  what  was  it  that  fixed  your  atten- 
tion so,  my  dear  ?" 

"Why,  that  about  it's  being  always  Sunday  in  Heaven— jW 
tuc.'i  a  Sunday  as  tliis,  only  more  so!" 

"  The  saint's  everlasting  rest — one  eternal  Sabbath !" 

"  Yes  !  I  know — but — " 

"What?  Jacquelina!" 

"  If  that's  the  case  it's  going  to  be  very  dull  up  there  1  And 
Pd  a  heap  liefer  go  to  Cother  place  /" 


108  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

So  much  for  poor  Sans  Souci's  lessons  in 
and  church  catechism  1 

More  than  six  months  had  passed  since  the  arrival  of  Jac- 
quelina  at  Luckenough.  It  was  now  mid-winter,  and  the  snow 
lay  nearly  two  feet  deep  around  the  old  mansion-house,  and  the 
naked  trees  of  the  forest  stood  out  stiff  and  stark  in  black 
Iracery  against  the  leaden  back-ground  of  the  sky.  The  roads 
were  in  such  a  condition,  as  to  nearly  preclude  the  possibility 
of  traveling.  No  one  came  and  went  between  Luckenough 
and  the  rest  of  the  world,  except  Doctor  Grimshaw,  and  some- 
times Cloudesley  Mornington.  The  excitement  of  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  had  passed,  and  all  life  was  rather  lifeless  at 
Luckenough. 

Jacquelina  was,  however,  a  wholesome  irritant,  and  kept  the 
people  from  dying  of  torpor.  In  and  out  of  the  house  almost 
every  instant ;  keeping  the  doors  banging,  and  the  wind  driving 
through  the  old  passages  and  parlors,  to  the  great  detriment 
of  the  invalid  soldier;  all  over  the  plantation,  and  through 
every  negro  quarter;  upon  the  tops  of  sheds  and  barns  and 
corn-houses ;  out  into  the  forest,  and  up  into  the  highest 
branches  of  the  dry,  bare  trees,  upon  no  other  errand  than  that 
of  mischief  and  danger;  sliding  upon  the  frozen  forest  stream, 
into  which  she  often  broke  and  fell,  with  no  more  fatal  conse- 
quences than  a  douse  in  the  ice  water,  ant1  a  run  home  in  stiff, 
frozen  clothes ;  clambering  upon  the  bad  s  of  unbroken  colts, 
and  holding  on  their  manes  for  a  bridle,  and  riding  them  until 
they  threw  her  into  the  snow — getting  herself  once  tossed  by 
the  bull,  and  saved  only  by  falling  into  a  deep  drift — in  short, 
going  everywhere,  and  doing  everything  that  could  keep  her 
friends  on  a  perpetual  rack  of  anxiety,  was  little  Sans  Souci ! 

And  the  more  the  sprite  tormented  and  tortured  her 'friends, 
the  better  they  seemed  to  love  her.  This  was  especially  the 
case  with  the  Commodore.  Nothing  could  exceed  his  care  for 
the  child.  He  charged  every  servant  on  the  premises  with  the 
duty  of  looking  after  her,  and  keeping  her  in  sight,  niul  out  of 
daitger,  threatening  eoch  ouu  separately  with  th«  most  awfui 


S  A.  X  S      8  0  U  C  I.  109 

risitations  of  his  wrath,  if  any  harm  came  to  Miss  Jacquelina 
L'Oiseau.  And  a  precious  time  the  servants  had  of  it,  parti- 
cularly old  Jenny,  who  was  the  regularly  appointed  nurse  or 
maid  of  the  young  lady.  Jenny  declared  it  her  private  belief, 
that  she  should  not  live  out  half  her  remaining  days  for  chasing 
after  "that  there  little  limb." 

"Where  is  the  little  wretch  now?"  asked  the  Commodore, 
one  day  when  the  family  were  about  to  sit  down  to  dinner. 
"  Where  is  she  ?  Call  Jenny  !" 

And  when  Jenny  was  called,  and  came  in,  gray  and  breath- 
less with  fear — 

"Where  is  Miss  Jacquelina?"  he  asked. 

"Done  dome  up  de  top  o'  de  hemlock,  ole  Marse,  honey! 
'deed  is  de  chile.  I  couldn't  'vent  her  to  save  my  precious  life. 
An'  now  one  o'  de  branches  done  broke,  an'  she  can't  get  down 
again.  'Deed  it  wa'n't  no  fault  o'  me,  ole  Marse,  chile  !  Nobody 
can't  do  a  single  thing  long  o'  dat  young  gal,  dey  can't,  in ;' 

Jenny  broke  off  suddenly,  and  dodged  in  time  to  escape  the 
pitcher  that  old  Xick  hurled  at  her  head,  as  he  started  up  from 
the  table,  and,  without  hat  or  overcoat,  rushed  out  into  the 
wintry  weather. 

He  ran,  puffing  and  blowing,  to  the  old  hemlock,  that  stood 
at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  front  lawn. 

"Oh,  you  little  vixen  !  Oh,  you  little  wretch  !  You — you 
little  imp,  you  !  Wont  I  give  it  to  you  when  I  get  you  down  ?" 
gasped  the  old  man,  as  he  reached  the  spot,  and  stood  panting 
for  breath,  and  suffocating  like  a  stranded  whale. 

"Hold  out  your  arms  and  catch  me,  uncle;  I  am  going  to 
jump  !"  she  exclaimed,  her  malicious  blue  eyes  scintillating 
laughter  as  she  swung  up  and.  down  upon  the  fragile  branch. 

"  STOP  !  STOP  !  Do,  if  you'dare,  you  little  infernal  machine  ! 
Wait  till  I  get  a  ladder!"  cried  the  Commodore,  bursting  into 
a  sweat  of  terror. 

"Quick!  uncle!  Here  I  come!"  she  exclaimed,  swinging 
up,  and  flinging  out  her  arms  for  a  flying  leap. 

He  had  just  time  to  extend  his  own  arms  and  receive  her  an 
7 


110  THE      MISSING      B  11  IDE. 

she  came — he  so  weak  with  his  fright  that  her  weight  over- 
threw him,  and  he  fell  and  rolled  over  in  the  snow,  she  up- 
permost, clinging  to  him,  convulsed  with  laughter.  He  picked 
himself  up,  groaned,  rubbed  his  joints,  and  then  seized  and 
shook  the  little  mischief  out  of  breath,  and  dragged  her  along 
home  to  his  wife.  He  entered  the  house,  vociferating, 

"Old  Hen!  Old  Hen,  I  say!  Come,  here!  What  the 
fiend  shall  I  do  with  this  little  abomination  ?  I  have  the 
greatest  mind  to  whip  her  to  death  !  Little  panic  that  she  is 
— she's  worse  than  ten  Ediths — yes  !  than  ten  thousand  Ediths  ! 
Girls  are  an  insupportable  nuisance  !  And  I  vow  I  would  dis- 
card them  all  forever,  and  adopt  one  of  my  nephews  for  my 
heir,  only  that  Grim'  can't  marry  my  nephew !  And  I  am  re- 
solved Grim'  shall  succeed  me  at  Luckenough." 

"  Well,  why  not  bequeath  it  to  Grim'  unconditionally  ?" 

"  No !  it  mustn't  go  out  of  the  family.  But  don't  bother  me 
about  that,  Old  Hen !  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that.  I 
want  to  know  what  to  do  with  this  little  imp  of  Satan !  Little 
wretch  that  she  is !  I  swear,  I've  lost  a  hundred  pounds  of 
flesh  since  she's  been  in  this  house !  She  frets  my  nerves  to 
fiddle  strings — my  coat  hangs  on  me  like  a  shirt  on  a  marl  in 
spike!  I  know  she'll  finally  be  the  death  of  me!  she'll  bring 
on  a  stroke  of  apoplexy  or  palsy  I  She  has  already  put  me 
through  such  a  course  of  panics,  anxieties,  terrors  and  palpita- 
tions, that  I  am  as  nervous  as  a  hysterical  girl !  Now  just  take 
her  away  and  lock  her  up  in  the  dark  closet  without  her  dinner. 
Doit!" 

Henrietta  led  the  little  offender  off,  but  not  to  meet  the  fate 
to  which  she  had  been  sentenced. 

Sans  Souci,  hanging  her  head  dpwn,  not  in  mortification,  but 
in  the  deep  study  of  some  new  nnschief — some  plan  by  which 
the  could  "pay  Uncle  Nick  off  for  this." 

Henrietta  entered  her  own  bed-room,  and  sitting  down,  lifted 
Jacquelina  to  her  lap,  embraced  her,  smoothed  the  tangled  curls 
of  her  bright  hair,  laid  the  tired,  mischief-brewing  little  head 
ngaiust  her  own  soft,  cushiony  bosom,  looked  lovingly,  seriouety 
in.  the  mischievous  litr-le  face,  and  bi  ginning  with. 


SANS      SOUCI.  Ill 

"My  dear  child — my  sweet  little  Lina — "  entered  npon  a 
rather  long  lecture  about  the  beauty  of  docility,  propriety  and 
obedience. 

Sans  Souci  appeared  to  listen  with  the  utmost  attention, 
only  sometimes  her  eyelids  swayed  heavily,  as  if  they  would 
close  in  sleep.  But,  upon  the  whole,  Mrs.  Waugh  had  every 
reason  to  suppose  that  she  was  producing  a  very  serious  im- 
pression upon  the  little  creature,  whose  eyes  were  towards  the 
last  fixed  upon  hers  with  great  earnestness.  Jacquelina  was 
evidently  full  of  some  thought. 

"Aunty!"  she  said,  when  Mrs.  Henrietta  had  finished  the 
lecture,  and  was  reposing  upon  her  laurels.  "  Aunty  I"  looking 
solemnly  in  the  lady's  face. 

"What,  my  dear?" 

"  Do  you  know  the  white  kitten's  eyes  are  open — and  it  ain't 
but  eight  days  old !  Indeed  they  are !  You  can  see  them 
yourself  if  you  go  in  the  barn.  I'm  going  now !"  And  Sans 
Souci  jumped  up,  darted  through  the  door  like  a  bird  with 
spread  wings,  and  in  a  twinkling  was  seen  flying  across  the  lawn. 

Mrs.  Henrietta  sighed  deeply,  and  arose  and  left  the  room. 

So  the  elf  escaped  confinement  upon  that  occasion.  But  the 
next  day  she  fell  into  so  many  unpardonable  disorders,  that  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  found  herself  actually  imprisoned 
in  the  long  threatened  "dark  closet,"  the  dark  closet  in  the 
disused  parlor,  and  where  Mrs.  Waugh  kept  her  choicest  jellies 
and  sweetmeats. 

Cloudesley  Mornington,  who  happened  to  be  spending  the 
day  at  Luckenough,  was  extremely  indignant  at  what  he  called 
"this  outrage,"  "this  tyranny."  He  would  say  little,  of  course, 
but  as  soon  as  the  parlor  was  vacated,  he  went  into  it  and  sat 
down  at  the  outside  of  Sans  Souci's  prison  door,  telling  her  not 
to  grieve,  that  he  meant  to  stay  there  until  she  was  released,  if 
it  were  all  night — telling  her  how  much  he  liked  her,  and  what 
a  good  girl  she  was,  and  what  an  old  brute  her  uncle  was,  and 
offering  to  tell  her  stories  and  sing  her  songs  to  while  away  the 
hours  of  captivity. 


112  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

But  Sans  Souci  was  incurable — she  grieved  without  limit. 

"Don't  cry,  Linny!  Linny,  don't  cry,  they'll  hear  you,  yon 
know!  And  /wouldn't  let  them  hear  me  if  /  were  you.  I 
wouldn't  let  them  think  I  cared  so  much  about  it,  not  I !" 

It  was  no  use  !  Sans  Souci  wept  and  wailed  without  ceasing. 
At  last  a  bright  thought  struck  Cloudesley.  He  put  his  lips  to 
the  keyhole  and  whispered, 

41  Linny !  listen  1     Don't  cry  I — eat  the  sweetmeats!" 

"And  so  I  will,  Cloudy!"  said  the  little  captive,  and  sud- 
denly the  tears  and  sobs  ceased,  and  Sans  Souci  became  very 
stillj  while  Cloudesley  sat  down  chuckling.  Soon  after  he  took 
"  Esop's  Fables"  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  read  to  her 
And  she  listened  and  ate — sometimes  stopping  to  say, 

"  This  citron  is  very  nice — I  wish  I  could  put  some  out  to 
you,  Cloudy  ;"  or  "  this  ginger  is  jamb  I  I  wish  you  had  some  !" 

To  which  he  would  answer, 

"Never  mind — I  had  a  great  deal  rather  you  ate  it." 

So  he  continued  to  read  and  comment  on  what  he  read,  and 
to  joke,  and  she  listened  and  laughed,  and  ate  preserves  until 
the  afternoon  had  passed.  And  then  her  talk  grew  shorter 
and  shorter,  until  she  ceased  saying  anything  of  her  own  ac- 
cord. And  then  her  replies  to  him  grew  indistinct  and  wide 
of  the  subject.  And,  lastly,  from  her  utter  silence,  he  knew 
that  the  child  had  fallen  asleep.  Still  he  sat  and  kept  guard, 
that  she  might  not  waken  and  find  herself  alone.  When  it 
grew  dark,  and  he  heard  some  one  coming,  he  slipped  out  at 
one  door  as  Mrs.  Waugh  entered  by  the  other.  The  lady 
brought  a  candle  and  a  key,  and  opened  the  closet  door  to  re- 
lease her  prisoner. 

And  there  she  found  Sans  Souci  sound  asleep  among  the 
rifled  sweetmeat  jars ! 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE      BLIGHTED      HEART. 

"  Oh  1  fate,  hovr  could  thy  vengeance  light 
Eo  bitterly  on  one  so  bright  f 
How  could  the  hand  that  gave  such  charms 
Blast  them  again  in  lore's  own  arms?" — Moan. 

Ix  February,  the  deepest  snow  storm  fell  that  had  fallen 
during  the  whole  winter.  The  roads  were  considered  quite  im- 
passable by  carriages,  and  the  family  at  Luckenough  were 
blocked  up  in  their  old  house.  Yet  one  day,  in  the  midst  of 
this  "tremendous  state  of  affairs,"  as  the  Commodore  called  it, 
a  messenger  from  Benedict  arrived  at  Luckenough,  the  bearer 
of  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Waugh,  which  he  refused  to  entrust  to  any 
other  hands  but  that  lady's  own.  He  was,  therefore,  shown 
into  the  presence  of  the  mistress,  to  whom  he  presented  the 
note.  Mrs.  Waugh  took  it  and  looked  at  it  with  some  curi- 
osity— it  was  superscribed  in  a  slight  feminine  hand — quite  new 
to  Henrietta ;  and  she  opened  it,  and  turned  immediately  to 
the  signature — MARIAN  MAYFIELD — a  strange  name  to  her;  she 
had  never  seen  or  heard  it  before.  She  lost  no  more  time  in 
perusing  the  letter,  but  as  she  read,  her  cheek  flushed  and  paled 
— her  agitation  became  excessive,  she  was  obliged  to  ring  for 
a  glass  of  water,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  swallowed  it,  she 
crushed  and  thrust  the  letter  into  her  bosom,  ordered  her  mule 
to  be  saddled  instantly,  and  her  riding  pelisse  and  hood  to  be 
brought.  And  in  fifteen  minutes,  without  a  word  of  explana- 
tion to  any  one,  she  was  seated  on  her  beast,  and  attended  by 
the  messenger,  mounted  upon  another  mule — the  only  kind  of 
animal  that  could  stand  these  dreadful  roads — set  forward  to- 
wards B .  The  Commodore,  who  saw  her  depart,  fancied 

that  she  was  bound  on  some  little  errand  of  mercy  (not  an  uii- 
usual  thing  with  the  good  woman)  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
Cm) 


114  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

hood.  In  the  meantime,  Henrietta  put  her  mule  to  its  utmost 
speed,  and  in  two  hours  and  a  half  reached  the  village,  and 
alighted  at  the  little  hotel.  Of  the  landlord,  who  came  forth 
respectfully  to  meet  her,  she  demanded  to  be  shown  immedi- 
ately to  the  presence  of  the  young  lady  who  had  recently  ar- 
rived from  abroad.  The  host  bowed,  and  inviting  the  lady  to 
follow  him,  led  the  way  to  the  little  private  parlor,  the  door  of 
which  he  opened  to  let  the  visitor  pass  in,  and  then  bowing 
again,  he  closed  it  and  retired. 

And  Mrs.  Waugh  found  herself  in  a  small,  half-darkened 
room,  where,  reclining  in  an  easy  chair,  sat — Edith  ?  Was  it 
Edith  ?  Could  it  be  Edith  ?  That  fair  phantom  of  a  girl  to 
whom  the  black  ringlets  and  black  dress  alone  seemed  to  give 
outline  and  personality  ?  Yes !  it  was  Edith  1  But  oh !  so 
changed !  so  wan  and  transparent,  with  such  blue  shadows  in 
the  hollows  of  her  eyes  and  temples  and  cheeks — with  such 
heavy,  heavy  eyelids,  seemingly  dragged  down  by  the  weight  of 
their  long,  sleeping  lashes — with  such  anguish  in  the  gaze  of  the 
melting  dark  eyes  1 

"Edith,  my  love!  My  dearest  Edith!"  said  Mrs.  Waugh, 
going  to  her. 

She  half  arose,  and  sunk  speechless  into  the  kind  arms  opened 
to  receive  her.  Mrs.  Waugh  held  her  to  her  bosom  a  moment 
in  silence,  and  then  said, 

"Edith,  my  dear,  I  got  a  note  from  your  friend,  Miss  Mayfield, 
saying  that  you  had  returned,  and  wished  to  see  me.  But  how 
is  this,  my  child  ?  You  have  evidently  been  very  ill — you  are 
still.  Where  is  your  husband,  Edith  ?  Edith,  where  is  your 
husband  ?" 

A  shiver  that  shook  her  whole  frame — a  choking,  gasping  sob, 
was  all  the  answer  she  could  make. 

"  Where  is  he,  Edith  ?  Ordered  away  somewhere,  upon  some 
distant  service?  That  is  hard,  but  never  mind!  Hope  for  the 
best !  You  will  meet  him  again,  dear  ?  But  where  is  ho,  then  f " 

She  lifted  up  her  poor  head,  and  uttering — "Dead!  dead!" 
dropped  it  heavily  again  upon  the  kind,  supporting  bosom. 


THE      BLIGHTED      HEART.  115 

"  You  do  not  mean  it  I  My  dear,  you  do  not  mean  it !  Yon 
do  not  know  what  you  are  saying !  Dead  !  when  ?  how  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Waugh,  in  great  trouble. 

"  Shot!  shot !"  whispered  the  poor  thing,  in  a  tone  so  hollow, 
it  seemed  reverberating  through  a  vault.  And  then  her  stricken 
head  sunk  heavily  down— and  Henrietta  perceived  that  strength 
and  consciousness  had  utterly  departed.  She  placed  her  in  the 
easy-chair,  and  turned  around  to  look  for  restoratives,  when  a 
door  leading  into  an  adjoining  bed-room  opened,  and  a  young 
girl  entered,  and  came  quietly  and  quickly  forward  to  the  side 
of  the  sufferer.  She  greeted  Mrs.  Waugh  politely,  and  then 
gave  her  undivided  attention  to  Edith,  whose  care  she  seemed 
fully  competent  to  undertake. 

This  young  girl  was  not  over  fourteen  years  of  age,  yet  the 
most  beautiful  and  blooming  creature,  Mrs.  Waugh  thought, 
that  she  had  ever  beheld.  A  perfect  Hebe !  A  richly  develop- 
ing form,  softly  flushed  over  with  the  roseate  hue  of  pure  blood, 
that  deepened  and  brightened  to  a  fine  carnation  bloom  on  her 
cheeks  and  lips — a  rich  growth  of  golden-bronzed  hair  that 
rippled  in  a  thousand  glittering  wavelets  over  the  superb  head, 
and  turned  into  a  ringlet  wherever  a  tress  escaped  the  comb  that 
confined  the  burnished  mass  into  a  knot  behind — a  pair  of  fine, 
dark,  clear  blue  eyes,  full  of  sweetness  and  candor — a  luxuriant 
exuberance  of  vitality  glowing  over  the  whole  form  and  face — 
glowing  without  heat,  glowing  with  a  dewy  coolness,  like  a 
blooming  damask  rose  in  the  morning — an  expression  of  kind- 
ness, cheerfulness,  confidence  and  strength  pervading  her  whole 
appearance — such  was  Marian  Mayfield ! 

Her  presence  in  the  room  seemed  at  once  to  dispel  the  eloom 
and  shadow. 

She  took  Edith's  hand,  and  settled  her  more  at  ease  m  the 
chair — but  refused  the  cologne  and  the  sal-ammoniac  tha.t  Mrs. 
Wauch  produced,  saying,  cheerfully, 

"  She  has  not  fainted,  you  perceive — she  breathes — it  is  better 
to  leave  her  to  nature  for  a  while — too  much  attention  worries 
her — she  is  verv  weak/' 


j.  lO  THE      MISSING      BRIBE. 

Marian  had  now  settled  her  comfortably  back  in  the  resting- 
chair,  and  stood  by  her  side,  not  near  enough  to  in  the  least  in- 
commode her. 

"I  do  not  understand  all  this.  She  says  that  her  husband  is 
dead,  poor  child — how  came  it  about?  Tell  me!"  said  Airs. 
"VVaugh,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Marian's  clear  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  she  dropped 
their  white  lids  and  long  black  lashes  over  them,  and  would  not 
let  them  fall ;  and  her  ripe  lips  quivered,  but  she  firmly  compressed 
them,  and  remained  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said,  in  a 
whisper, 

"  I  will  tell  you  by-and-by,"  and  she  glanced  at  Edith,  to 
intimate  that  the  story  must  not  be  rehearsed  in  her  presence, 
however  insensible  she  might  appear  to  be. 

"You  are  the  young  lady  who  wrote  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam." 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  my  poor  girl's  ?" 

"  Something  more  than  that,  madam — I  will  tell  you  by-and- 
by,"  said  Marian,  and  her  kind,  dear  eyes  were  again  turned 
upon  Edith,  and  observing  the  latter  slightly  move,  she  said,  in 
her  pleasant  voice, 

"  Edith,  dear,  shall  I  put  you  to  bed — are  you  able  to  walk  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  murmured  the  sufferer,  turning  her  head  uneasily 
from  side  to  side. 

Marian  gave  her  hand,  and  assisted  the  poor  girl  to  rise,  and 
tenderly  supported  her  as  she  walked  to  the  bed-room. 

Mrs.  Waugh  arose  to  give  her  assistance,  but  Marian  shook 
her  head  at  her,  with  a  kindly  look,  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Do 
not  startle  her — she  is  used  only  to  me  lately,"  and  bore  her  out 
of  sight  into  the  bed-room. 

Presently  she  reappeared  in  the  little  parlor,  opened  the 
blinds,  drew  back  the  curtains,  and  let  the  sunlight  into  the 
dark  room.  Then  she  ordered  more  wood  to  the  fire,  and  when 
it  was  replenished,  and  the  servant  had  left  the  room,  she  in- 
vited Mrs.  Waugh  to  draw  her  chair  to  the  hearth,  and  then  said, 

"I  am  ready  no\v,  madam,  to  tell  you  anything  you  \vi.-h  ta 


THE      BLIGHTED      HEART.  117 

know — indeed  I  had  supposed  that  you  were  acquainted  with 
everything  relating  to  Edith's  marriage,  and  its  fatal  results." 

"  I  know  absolutely  nothing  but  what  I  have  learned  to-day. 
We  never  received  a  single  letter,  or  message,  or  news  of  any 
kind,  or  in  any  shape,  from  Edith  or  her  husband,  from  the  day 
they  left  us  until  now." 

Marian's  bosom  heaved,  her  lips  quivered,  and  a  large  tear 
trembled  a  moment  on  her  dark  lashes,  and  then  rolled  slowly 
down  her  damask  cheek — a  dew-drop  on  a  rose.  She  calmly 
wiped  it  away,  and  then  drawing  a  deep  breath,  said, 

"  You  did  not  hear,  then,  that  he  was  court-martialed,  and — 
sentenced  to  death  ?" 

"  No,  no — good  Heaven,  no  !" 

"  He  was  tried  for  mutiny  or  rebellion — I  know  not  which — . 
but  it  was  for  raising  arms  against  his  superior  officers  while 
here  in  America — the  occasion  was — but  you  know  the  occa- 
sion better  than  I  do." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  was  when  he  rescued  Edith  from  the  violence 
of  Thorg  and  his  men.  But  oh  !  Heaven,  how  horrible  !  that 
he  should  have  been  condemned  to  death  for  a  noble  act !  It  is 
incredible — impossible — how  could  it  have  happened  ?  He  never 
expected  such  a  fate — none  of  us  did,  or  we  would  never  have 
consented  to  his  return.  There  seemed  no  prospect  of  such  a 
thing.  How  could  it  have  been  ?" 

"  There  was  treachery,  and  perhaps  perjury,  too.  He  had  an 
insidious  and  unscrupulous  enemy,  who  assumed  the  guise  of 
repentance,  and  candor,  and  friendship,  the  better  to  lure  him 
into  his  toils — it  was  the  infamous  Colonel  Thorg,  who  re- 
ceived the  command  of  the  regiment,  in  reward  for  his  great  ser- 
vices in  America.  And  Michael's  only  powerful  friend,  who  could 
ai\  -  would  have  saved  him — was  dead.  General  Ross,  you  are 
aware,  was  killed  in  the  battle  of  Baltimore." 

"  God  have  mercy  on  poor  Edith  !  How  long  has  it  been 
since  this  happened,  my  dear  girl  ?" 

"  When  they  reached  Toronto,  in  Canada  West,  the  regiment 
commanded  by  Thorg  was  about  to  sail  for  England.  On  its 


118  THE       MISSING       BRIDE 

arrival  at  York,  in  England,  a  court-martial  was  formed,  and 
Michael  was  brought  to  trial.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  per- 
sonal prejudice,  distortion  of  facts,  and  even  perjury — in  short, 
he  was  condemned  and  sentenced  one  day,  and  led  out  and  shot 
the  next!" 

There  was  silence  between  them  then.  Henrietta  sat  in  pale 
»nd  speechless  horror. 

And  Marian's  bosom  was  heaving  vehemently,  and  she  was 
pressing  her  hands  first  upon  her  face  and  then  upon  her  breast, 
is  if  to  command  down  the  strong  emotion. 

"But  how  long  is  it  since  my  poor  Edith  has  been  so  awfully 
widowed  ?"  at  length  inquired  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"Nearly  four  months,"  replied  Marian,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
"  For  six  weeks  succeeding  his  death,  she  was  not  able  to  rise 
from  her  bed.  I  came  from  school  to  nurse  her.  I  found  her 
completely  prostrate  under  the  blow.  I  wonder  she  had  not 
died.  What  power  of  living  on  some  delicate  frames  seem  to 
have.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  sit  up,  I  began  to  think 
that  it  would  be  better  to  remove  her  from  the  strange  country, 
the  theatre  of  her  dreadful  sufferings,  and  to  bring  her  to  her 
own  native  land,  among  her  own  friends  and  relatives,  where 
she  might  resume  the  life  and  habits  of  her  girlhood,  and  where, 
with  nothing  to  remind  her  of  her  loss,  she  might  gradually 
come  to  look  upon  the  few  wretched  months  of  her  marriage, 
passed  in  England,  as  a  dark  dream.  Therefore  I  have  brought 
her  back." 

Mrs.  Waugh  looked  and  listened  with  the  deepest  interest, 
mingled  with  astonishment,  at  the  young  girl — so  childlike,  yet 
so  womanly — so  youthful,  yet  so  wise  and  prudent. 

"And  you,  my  dear  child,"  said  she  "you  were  Michael 
Shields' sister?" 

"  Xo,  madam,  no  kin  to  him — and  yet  more  than  kin — for  he 
loved  me,  and  I  loved  him  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world, 
as  I  i.ow  love  his  poor  young  widow.  This  was  the  way  of  it, 
Mrs.  Waugh:  Michael's  father  and  my  mother  had  both  been 
Untried  before,  and  we  were  the  children  of  the  first  marriages; 


THE       BLIGHTED       HEART.  Ill) 

when  Michael  was  fourteen  years  old,  and  I  was  seven,  our  pa- 
rents were  united,  and  we  two  grew  up  together.  About  two 
years  ago,  Michael's  father  died.  My  mother  survived  him 
only  five  months,  and  departed,  leaving  me  in  the  charge  of  her 
step-son.  We  had  no  friends  but  each  other.  Our  parents, 
since  their  union,  had  been  isolated  beings,  for  this  reason — his 
father  was  a  Jew — my  mother  a  Christian — therefore  the  friends 
and  relatives  on  either  side  were  everlastingly  offended  by  their 
marriage.  Therefore  we  had  no  one  but  each  other.  The  little 
property  that  was  left  was  sold,  and  the  proceeds  enabled 
Michael  to  purchase  a  commission  in  the  regiment  about  to 
sail  for  America,  and  also  to  place  me  at  a  good  boarding 
school,  where  I  remained  until  his  return,  and  the  catastrophe 
that  followed  it." 

She  was  silent  sometime  after  this,  her  bosom  heaving  with 
ill  suppressed  emotion.  At  last  she  resumed, 

"Lady,  all  passed  so  suddenly,  that  I  knew  no  word  of  his 
return,  much  less  of  his  trial  or  execution,  until  I  received  a 
visit  from  the  chaplain  who  had  attended  his  last  moments,  and 
who  brought  me  his  farewell  letter,  and  his  last  informal  will, 
in  which  the  poor  fellow  consigned  me  to  the  care  of  his  wife, 
soon  to  be  a  widow,  and  enjoined  me  to  leave  school  and  seek 
her  at  once,  and  enclosed  a  check  for  the  little  balance  he  had 
\u  bank.  I  went  immediately,  found  her  insensible  through 
grief,  as  I  said — and,  lady,  I  told  you  the  rest." 

Henrietta  was  weeping  softly  behind  the  handkerchief  she 
held  at  her  eyes.  At  last  she  repeated, 

"  You  say  he  left  you  in  his  widow's  charge  ?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"  Left  his  widow  in  yonr's,  rather,  you  good  and  faithful 
sister." 

"  It  was  the  same  thing,  lady;  we  were  to  live  together,  and 
to  support  each  other." 

"  But  what  was  your  thought,  my  dear  girl,  in  bringing  her 
Here  ?" 

"  I  told  you,  lady,  that  in  her  own  native  land,   among  her 


120  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

own  dear  kinsfolk,  she  might  be  comforted,  and  might  resume 
her  girlhood's  thoughts  and  habits,  and  learn  to  forget  the 
strange  dark  passages  of  her  short  married  life,  passed  in  a 
foreign  country." 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  did  you  not  know,  had  you  never  heard 
that  her  uncle  disowned  her  for  marrying  against  his  will  ?" 

"  Something  of  that  I  certainly  heard  from  Edith,  lady,  when 
I  first  proposed  to  her  to  come  home.  But  she  was  very  weak, 
and  her  thoughts  very  rambling,  poor  thing — she  could  not 
stick  to  a  point  long,  and  I  overruled  and  guided  her — I  could 
not  believe  but  that  her  friends  would  take  her  poor  widowed 
heart  to  their  homes  again.  But  if  it  should  be  otherwise, 
still—" 

"  Well  ?— still  ?" 

"  Why,  I  cannot  regret  having  brought  her  to  her  native 
soil — for,  if  we  find  no  friends  in  America,  we  have  left  none  in 
England — a  place  besides  full  of  the  most  harrowing  recollec- 
tions, from  which  this  place  is  happily  free.  America  also 
offers  a  wider  field  for  labor  than  England  does,  and  if  her 
friends  behave  badly,  why  I  will  work  for  her,  and — for  her 
child,  if  it  should  live." 

"  Dear  Marian,  you  must  not  think  by  what  I  said  just  now, 
that  I  am  not  a  friend  to  Edith.  I  am  indeed.  I  love  her 
almost  as  if  she  were  my  own  daughter.  I  incurred  my  hus- 
band's anger  by  remaining  with  her  after  her  marriage  until 
she  sailed.  I  will  not  fail  her  now,  be  sure.  Personally,  I 
will  do  my  utmost  for  her.  I  will  also  try  to  influence  her 
uncle  in  her  favor.  And  now,  my  dear,  it  is  getting  very  late, 
and  there  is  a  long  ride,  and  a  dreadful  road  before  me.  The 
Commodore  is  already  anxious  for  me,  I  know,  and  if  I  keep 
him  waiting  much  longer,  he  will  be  in  nc  mood  to  be  per- 
suaded by  me.  So  I  must  go.  To-morrow,  my  dear,  a  better 
home  shall  be  found  for  you  and  Edith.  That  I  promise  upon 
my  own  responsibility.  And  now,  my  dear,  excellent  girl 
good-bye.  I  will  see  you  again  in  the  luoruing." 

And  Mrs.  Wangh  took  leave. 


THE      BLIGHTED      HEART.  121 

'  No,"  thundered  Commodore  Waugh,  thrusting  his  head 
forward  and  bringing  his  stick  down  heavily  upon  the  floor. 
"  No,  I  say !  I  will  not  be  bothered  with  her  or  her  troubles. 
Don't  talk  tome!  I  care  nothing  about  them!  What  should 
her  trials  be  to  me?  The  precious  affair  has  turned  out  just  as 
I  expected  it  would !  Only  what  I  did  not  expect  was  that  we 
should  have  her  back  upon  our  hands!  I  wonder  at  Edith! 
I  thought  she  had  more  pride  than  to  come  back  to  me  for 
comfort  after  leaving  as  she  did !" 

This  was  all  the  satisfaction  Mrs.  Waugh  got  from  Old  Nick, 
when  she  had  related -to  him  the  sorrowful  story  of  Edith's 
widowhood  and  return,  and  had  appealed  to  his  generosity  in 
her  behalf.  Henrietta  thought  she  had  never  seen  her  husband 
look  hideous  and  revolting  before — the  round  shoulders  looked 
more  humped — the  bull  head  and  neck  more  bullish — the  wiry 
gray  hair  and  beard  more  grizzly,  and  the  flaming  scar  across 
his  face  more  fiery  than  ever.  She  felt  rather  indignant,  slow 
as  she  was  to  be  moved  to  anger;  but  for  Edith's  sake  she 
governed  her  feelings,  and  replied, 

"  Poor  child — she  did  not  come  back  to  seek  aid  from  any 
one.  She  lies  like  a  dying  child,  without  the  power  to  form  a 
thought  or  wish  for  herself,  and  she  knows  nothing  whatever 
of  my  application  to  you." 

"  Then  you'd  better  wait  till  she  authorizes  you  to  beg  for 
her,  Mrs.  Waugh." 

"  I  would,"  said  Henrietta,  suppressing  her  anger,  "  but  if 
she  is  lying  there,  perfectly  incapable  of  thought  or  action,  and 
m  the  greatest  extremity,  some  one  must  think  and  act  for 
ner." 

"  Let  her  husband's  fine  English  relations  do  it,  then." 

"  He  had  but  one  relative,  a  young  girl ;  she  has  come  over  to 
attend  upon  Edith,  as  I  told  you  before." 

"With  the  hope  of  bettering  herself,  I  suppose!  Yes!  1 
know  all  about  such  moves  as  that.  I  can  see  as  far  into  a  mill- 
stone as  any  one  else  !  But  they'll  be  disappointed,  both  of 
them !  I'm  not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with  !  Edith  made  her 


122  THE      MISSING      BRIIE. 

choice,  and  now,  as  it  has  not  turned  out  quite  so  happily  ag 
she  expected,  she  shall  not  turn  back,  and  hoodwink  and  make 
a  fool  of  me.  I'm  not  to  be  wound  around  her  fingers,  or  yours 
cither,  Old  Hen  1  I'll  not  interfere !  as  she  has  baked  she  must 
brew.  I'll  not  be  bothered  with  her.  Give  me  my  pipe,  Old  Hen  ! 

Henrietta  arose  and  filled  his  pipe  with  unusual  care,  and 
lighted  it  well  and  put  it  in  his  hands,  and  then  sat  quietly  by 
his  side,  until  she  thought  the  weed  had  had  time  to  soothe  his 
excited  nerves ;  and  then  she  began  again,  and  sought  to  per- 
suade him  by  every  means  in  her  power  to  relent  towards  her 
niece.  She  urged  upon  him  the  claims  of  humanity,  of  relation- 
ship, of  Christian  charity,  of  the  world's  opinion — vain,  and 
worse  than  vain  !  And  as  for  the  fumes  of  tobacco,  while  they 
soothed  him  into  quietness,  they  also  seemed  to  sink  him  into 
sullenness  and  doggedness.  And  at  last,  Henrietta  arose  and 
left  the  room  with  a  feeling  of  repulsion,  that  all  Old  Nick's  ugli- 
ness had  never  been  able  to  awaken  before. 

The  destitute  return  of  Edith  was  now  pretty  generally  known 
through  the  household,  thanks  to  the  Commodore's  loud  replies, 
and  brutal  and  violent  manner.  The  members  of  the  family 
were  gathered  into  little  knots,  discussing  the  affair.  Henrietta 
was  very  much  troubled  and  perplexed.  She  had  given  her 
word  that  a  home  should  be  provided  for  Edith  and  Marian  that 
very  day — she  had  also  promised  to  see  them  that  morning. 
Now  the  morning  was  half  over,  and  she  had  nothing  hopeful  to 
carry  them. 

It  was  little  Jacquelina  who  helped  her  out  of  the  dilemma. 
She  chanced  to  find  the  fairy  in  her  mother's  room,  standing 
between  old  Jenny's  knees,  getting  her  hair  combed  and  curled. 

"Aunty  !     Has  Fair  Edith  come  back  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"  And  wont  uncle  invite  her  to  come  here  and  stay  ?" 

'•'No,  Lapwing." 

"  And  she  hasn't  got  any  place  to  go  ?" 

"No,  she  is  houseless,  poor  thing." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Aunty,  let  her  go  and  live  at  Old 


THE      BLIGHTED       HEART.  12" 

Field  Cottage — that's  a  nice  place !  A  great  deal  nicer  than 
this  great  big,  horrid,  old  Lock-eni-up,  as  Crazy  Nell  calls  it. 
I'm  sure  I  wish  Mimray  would  go  back  to  it  herself — we  can  see 
the  outside  of  the  world  there,  and  the  ships  go  up  and  down 
the  bay.  Fair  Edith  can  go  there." 

"  Why,  I  do  not  know  but  that's  a  good  idea,  Lapwing.  I'll 
speak  to  your  mother  about  it." 

When,  a  few  minutes  after,  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  entered  the  chamber, 
Mrs.  Waiigh  broke  the  subject  to  her. 

"Why,"  said  Mary,  "the  cottage  stands  just  as  we  left  it. 
The  furniture  is  mine,  and  Edith  is  quite  welcome  to  the  use  of 
it,  if  her  uncle  will  consent  to  let  her  reside  there." 

"Indeed  I  shall  not  ask  him  any  questions  about  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Waugh,  "and  since  you  are  kind  enough  to  let  Edith  have 
the  use  of  the  furniture,  I  shall  load  a  cart  with  provisions  and 
send  it  on  in  advance,  and  I  shall  then  go  to  Benedict  and 
convey  Edith  and  her  friend  thither.  And,  Jenny,  you  may 
just  pack  up  your  clothes  and  go  with  me.  You  must  remain 
with  Edith,  to  wait  upon  her  for  some  months  to  come  yet — in 
the  meantime,  we  will  find  some  younger  maid  for  Lapwing,  and 
after  that  we  will  see  what's  to  be  done."  And  Henrietta  went 
out  to  hasten  her  preparations. 

Mary  L'Oiseau  was  very  much  disturbed  in  consequence  of 
this  independent  proceeding  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Waugh,  and 
expressed  her  dread  lest  she  herself  should  draw  the  anger  of 
the  irascible  Commodore  down  upon  her  head,  for  the  share  she 
had  in  it  by  lending  her  furniture.  But  Jacquelina  was  indig- 
nant that  any  one  should  be  afraid  to  befriend  Fair  Edith.  And 
Old  Jenny  expressed  her  perfect  confidence  that  her  mistress 
knew  what  she  was  doing,  and  that  if  she  couldn't  "  'trol  old 
marse  iu  all  things,  she  could  'trol  him  in  most." 


CHAPTER  TX. 

M  A  R  I  A  X  . 

"  Not  only  good  and  kind, 
But  strong  and  elevated  is  her  mind; 
A  spirit  that  with  noble  pride 
Can  look  superior  down 
On  fortune's  smile  or  frown  ; 
That  can,  without  regret  or  pain, 
To  virtue's  lowest  duty  sacrifice."— Lori  LytOctan. 

AI-TER  despatching  a  wagon,  well  loaded  with  all  necessary 
)  'ovljions,  and  many  comforts  and  luxuries,  for  Old  Field  Cot- 
t«.ge,  Airs.  Waugh  mounted  her  mule,  and  attended  by  Jenny 
on  another,  trotted  off  towards  B . 

Good  Henrietta  was  never  thoroughly  provoked  before  this. 
These  usually  calm,  benignant  souls,  when  they  are  moved,  are 
very  deeply  troubled,  indeed.  She  rode  on,  in  something  very 
like  sullenness,  feeling  a  strange,  new  repulsion  toward  her 
old  invalid  soldier,  and  a  dislike,  bordering  upon  contempt,  for 
Mary  L'Oiseau,  and  her  small  selfishness  and  cowardice. 

Old  Jenny,  excessively  social  and  loquacious,  like  all  her  race, 
made  several  attempts  to  open  a  conversation,  persevering  until 
her  mistress,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  said, 

"Don't  bother  me,  Jenny." 

And  at  this  really  unprecedented  rebuff,  the  old  maid  sunk 
into  a  mortified  silence,  that  continued  the  remainder  of  the  ride 
through  the  forest. 

When  they  reached  the  village  and  the  little  hotel  and  were 
fib  own  into  the  small,  shady  parlor,  Mrs.  Waugh  found  Edith 
8nd  Marian  both  present,  and  enjoying  more  comfort  and  privacy 
f  *ian  might  have  been  expected. 

Edith  reclined  upon  a  lounge,  with  a  thin  handkerchief  laid 
-  vcr  her  face. 

And  Marian  sat,  not  too  near,  bu&ily  plying  her  needle— 
(124) 


MARIAN.  125 

how  her  finders  flew  I  yet  with  what  quiet  swiftness !  That  was 
the  first  thing  Mrs.  Waugh  noticed  as  she  entered  the  room. 
The  young  girl  lifted  her  blooming  face,  and  arose  and  came 
forward. 

"Why  how  busy  you  are,  my  dear!  How  fast  your  rosy 
fingers  do  fly — perhaps  that  is  what  keeps  them  so  fresh  and 
roseate." 

"  Perhaps.  But  one  of  the  things  my  mother  succeeded  in  im- 
pressing upon  my  mind  was,  the  value  of  time  as  capital — the 
only  capital  of  the  poor — the  only  inheritance  which  all  have  re- 
ceived alike  from  the  Heavenly  Father.  Now  I  have  a  plenty 
of  time,  and  no  lack  of  work;  and  whatever  my  hand  'findeth  to 
do,'  I '  do  it  with  my  might !' "  said  Marian,  smiling  and  nodding. 

There  was  a  frank,  confident,  cheerful  strength  in  everything 
the  young  girl  said,  or  did,  or  looked,  that  had  the  most  en- 
couraging and  inspiring  effect  upon  any  one  who  saw  or  heard 
her.  The  little  fog  was  charmed  away  from  Henrietta's  temper 
by  the  sunniness  of  Marian's  presence. 

"And  Edith,  my  dear — ?" 

"She  had  a  quiet  night — took  some  little  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing, and  has  been  lying  very  still — as  you  see  her — all  day." 

Henrietta  walked  softly  towards  the  sofa,  and  Edith  drew  the 
handkerchief  from  her  face,  and  held  out  her  poor,  thin,  trans- 
parent hand. 

Mrs.  Waugh  took  it,  and  caressed  it  a  little,  and  bent  over 
and  softly  kissed  the  sufferer,  and  sat  down  by  her. 

But  Edith  turned  her  head  to  the  wall,  and  again  covered  her 
face  with  her  handkerchief. 

Mrs.  Waugh  then  explained  to  Marian  the  arrangements  that 
had  been  made  for  their  accommodation  at  Old  Field  Cottage, 
apologizing,  at  the  same  time,  for  the  small  size  and  solitary 
situation  of  the  house,  and  bitterly  regretting  that  she  had  not 
in  herself  the  power  to  offer  a  home  at  Luckenough. 

"  But  now  do  you  know  that  I  think  what  has  been  provided 
is  just,  the  best  possible  provision  in  the  world  for  Edith  ? 
Thin':  of  it !  Under  present  circumstances,  it  would  drive  her 
& 


126  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

crazy  to  live  at  Luckenough.  The  cottage  is  just  what  she 
needs — it  offers  her  the  solitude,  the  silence,  and  the  perfect 
rest  she  craves.  As  to  its  poverty  of  accommodations,  that  too 
falls  in  with  her  mood.  Edith,  like  many  other  mourners  in 
their  first  bereavement,  is  possessed  of  a  certain  asceticism,  and 
will  enjoy  no  luxury,  or  even  comfort,  if  she  can  help  it,  be- 
cause the  loved  and  the  lost  are  not  to  share  it  with  her.  And 
T  really  do  not  think  nature  ever  errs  in  these  things — and  I 
think  if  they  are  not  opposed,  they  help  to  soothe  the  sharp 
pains  of  sorrow,  and  afterwards  they  gradually  wear  out." 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  wisdom,  my  dear  girl  ?  and  you  so 
young — too  young  to  have  known  much  trouble,  or  to  have 
had  much  experience." 

"  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  other  people's  sorrows,  and  my 
little  experience  has  been  of  a  sort  to  make  me  observe  and  re- 
flect. But  let  us  talk  of  Edith — you  need  not  be  afraid  that 
she  shall  suffer  for  any  comfort  upon  account  of  the  distance  of 
the  cottage  from  the  village.  I  am  a  good  walker,  and  can  go 
ten  or  fifteen  miles  without  much  fatigue." 

"And  do  you  think  that  I  shall  allow  anything  of  that  sort  ? 
No,  my  dear — I  shall  send  over  the  pony  that  used  to  be 
Edith's,  and  my  own  mule  also,  and  oats  and  corn  for  both. 
Consider,  my  dear  girl,  that  I  have  the  right  to  provide  for  all 
the  wants  of  your  little  household.  What  a  well  ordered  little 
home  it  will  be  with  you  at  the  head  of  it,  I  am  sure ! — and  I 
will  do  my  best  to  anticipate  all  your  wants,  but  if  I  happen  to 
forget  any,  call  upon  me  with  the  utmost  freedom  and  frankness, 
as  upon  one  who  considers  herself  very  deeply  obliged  to  you 
for  all  your  kindness  and  attention  to  her  own  niece." 

Mrs.  Waugh  then  arose  to  take  leave,  and  they  went  to  the 
parlor.  Henrietta  went  to  the  sofa,  and  stooped  and  kissed 
Edith,  merely  whispering,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Good-by,  dear  child  ;  I  will  see  you  again  in  the  morning." 

Edith  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  in  silence.  And  so  they 
parted. 

Mrs.  Waugh  went  home. 


MARIAN.  127 

The  next  morning  at  sunrise  the  family  carriage  stood  at  the 
door,  and  Henrietta  had  it  well  packed  with  everything  that 
she  could  think  of  to  add  to  the  stores  sent  on  the  day  before. 
And  leaving  word  for  the  family  to  sit  down  to  breakfast  with- 
out her,  she  entered  the  carriage,  again  accompanied  by  Jenny, 
and  drove  to  B . 

She  got  there  in  time  to  eat  breakfast  with  Marian.  She 
then  insisted  upon  settling  the  whole  bill  at  the  hotel,  and  had 
all  the  baggage  belonging  to  her  two  proteges  packed  into  a 
cart,  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  carriage.  Then,  assisted  by 
Marian,  she  dressed  Edith,  and  placed  her  on  the  back  seat  of 
the  carriage,  and  herself  and  Marian  occupied  the  front  seat. 
Jenny  rode  in  the  baggage  cart. 

And  so  they  set  forward  towards  Old  Field  Cottage.  Their 
way  lay  over  desert  meadows,  through  remnants  of  the  forest, 
over  the  old  sterile  fields,  for  seven  miles  to  the  sea-side  cottage. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  they  reached  it  —  the  snow  lay 
drifted  all  around  the  deserted  cot — no  road  was  near  it,  except 
that  made  by  the  provision  wagon  that  had  come  the  day  be- 
fore. 

Edith  was  lifted  out,  and  borne  over  the  snow  into  the  house. 
And  the  rest  of  her  party  followed.  The  room  was  just  as  we 
have  seen  it  in  the  time  of  Mrs.  L'Oiseau's  residence  there — 
with  its  low  ceiling,  its  white-washed  walls,  sanded  floor,  pine 
table,  flag-bottomed  chairs,  plain  shelves,  and  corner  cupboard, 
filled  with  blue  delf  ware  ;  there  was  no  lounge  nor  easy  chair 
to  receive  the  languid  frame  of  the  invalid.  She  had  to  be 
carried  up  stairs  in  the  arms  of  Oliver,  and  laid  upon  her  bed. 
When  she  had  fallen  into  a  sleep  of  exhaustion,  Mrs.  Wnugh 
and  Marian  left  her,  and  came  down  stairs  and  had  a  talk. 

"  Now,  is  there  anything  that  you  can  think  of  that  I  can 
send  her,  my  dear  ?"  asked  Henrietta. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Wangh,  if  you  will  be  so  good.  You  know  that 
she  cannot  stay  up  in  that  loft  every  day,  and  all  day  long,  as 
well  as  all  night,  and  neither  can  she  sit  up  down  here — " 

"  I  .see — site  needs  a  couch  and  a  lounging  chair  for  this  room, 


128  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

and  she  shall  have  them.  I  will  send  them  over  to-morrow.  It 
there  anything  else  ?" 

"  No,  madam." 

The  floor  was  crowded  with  the  unladen  contents  of  the  two 
baggage  wagons.  And  Marian  was  already  busy  among  ham- 
pers, baskets,  bundles,  bags,  casks,  kegs,  etc.,  arranging  them 
in  the  cupboard  or  under  the  shelves. 

Mrs.  Waugh  looked  as  if  she  wished  to  assist,  but  she  was 
all  unaccustomed  to  the  use  of  her  hands,  and  she  could  only 
call  Oliver  from  watering  the  horses,  and  Jenny  from  gather- 
ing wood  for  the  fire,  to  come  in  and  assist  in  clearing  the  room 
and  packing  away  the  provisions. 

When  ail  this  was  done,  and  the  fire  was  blazing  cheerfully,  and 
the  kettle  singing  over  it,  and  the  little  round  table  set  out 
with  some  of  the  dainties  she  had  furnished,  Henrietta  only 
waited  to  partake  with  Marian  of  the  first  meal  eaten  in  the 
little  home — "  a  tea  dinner  " — and  then  took  leave,  promising 
to  visit  her  at  least  three  times  a  week. 

Henrietta  reached  Luckenough  about  sunset,  little  thinking 
of  the  furious  storm  that  was  to  meet  her  there.  As  she  drove 
up  to  the  house  and  alighted  from  the  carriage,  one  of  her 
favorite  housemaids  came  out  with  a  frightened  countenance, 
and  drawing  her  aside,  whispered, 

"  Please,  mist'ess,  go  up  to  your  room,  and  'tend  like  you're 
got  a  berry  bad  head-ache." 

"  And  why  should  I  do  that,  you  blockhead  ?" 

"  'Deed  mistress,  honey,  ole  marse  done  got  de  debbil  in  him, 
an'  I  wouldn'  wonder  what  he'd  do  !  'Deed  mist'ess,  don't  you 
go  in  dar,  honey,  please.  You  take  'vice.  'Deed  he  is  got  de 
debbil  in  him,  honey  —  'deed  he! — chuck  up  to  his  berry 
t'roat !" 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  for  my  going  to  him.  He  has 
bottled  up  Satan  against  my  return.  He  will  let  him  off,  and 
get  rid  of  him  as  soon  as  I  appear,"  thought  Mrs.  Waugli,  as 
she  passed  into  the  house,  and  sought  at  once  the  presence  of 
the  angry  man.  She  found  him  stamping  tip  and  clown  the 


MARIAN.  129 

hall — alone — he  had  frightened  every  living  creature  from  his 
proximity.  Mary  L'Oiseau  was  cowering  in  her  distant  cham- 
ber, Jacquelina  off  into  the  forest,  the  servants  all  huddling  to- 
gether in  the  kitchen — the  very  dogs  had  sneaked  off  and  were 
trembling  in  their  kennels.  And  the  Commodore  strode  up 
and  down  the  hall,  in  the  solitary  majesty  of  his  own  demoni- 
acal passion.  In  his  best  moods  he  was  unfortunately  very 
ugly,  but  now,  in  his  diabolical  anger,  he  was  hideous— his 
huge  form,  and  humped  shoulders,  and  big  head,  and  grizzly 
hair  and  beard,  and  fiery  visage,  adorned  with  that  flaming 
scar — all,  as  it  were,  lighted  up  and  glowing  with  fiendish  rage  1 
As  soon  as  Henrietta  appeared,  the  storm  burst  upon  her  de- 
voted head. 

I  am  not  about  to  describe  this  scene — it  is  unfit  for  repeti 
tion  here.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  Commodore  had 
learned  all  that  his  wife  had  been  doing  for  Edith — and  now 
he  poured  out  his  wrath  without  measure ;  all  that  a  coarse 
and  unscrupulous  old  man,  roused  to  fury,  would  say  and  do, 
was  said  and  done — infamous  charges,  degrading  epithets,  and 
brutal  and  violent  threats  were  hurled  at,  were  showered  upon 
good  Henrietta.  He  called  her  an  artful,  designing  woman,  a 
deceiver,  a  household  traitress — nay,  he  did  not  scruple  many 
times  to  call  her  a  thief — accusing  her  of  purloining  and  ap- 
propriating property  to  which  she  had  no  right.  And  since 
he  could  not  prosecute  her,  as  he  would  any  other  malefactor, 
he  should  use  his  own  authority,  and  punish  the  felony  as  it  de- 
served. And  so  he  strode  and  swore  and  gesticulated — stop- 
ping once  in  a  while  to  shake  his  fists  in  Henrietta's  face.  It 
took  about  three  hours  for  him  to  blow  and  storm  himself  down, 
into  a  state  of  exhaustion. 

And  there  sat  Henrietta  just  as  quiet  as  if  she  had  been  a 
wax  figure,  labeled,  "a  fat,  comfortable,  middle-aged  woman 
reposing."  So  she  had  sat  many  times  before,  waiting  for  the 
tempest  to  subside — only  this  time  had  he  but  noticed  the  set 
of  her  mouth ! 

As  it  was,  her  very  immobility  at  last  added  fuel  to  the  fire 


130  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

of  his  rage.  He  suddenly  stopped  before  her,  and  lookiug  as 
if  he  was  about  to  seize  her,  exclaimed, 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  then,  madam  ?  What  have  you  to 
answer  to  all  this  ?  What  can  you  say  ?  WThy  don't  you 
speak  ?" 

"  Because  that  which  I  have  to  say,  should  be  heard  by  a 
man  in  his  sober  senses — which  you  are  not,"  said  Henrietta. 

"Oh-h-h!  Tah-h-h!  Pish-ish-sh!  Tush-uth-shl"  and  every 
other  expression  that  would  throw  contempt  and  scorn  upon 
her  words,  and — "What  is  it  then  ?" 

"  Anon — presently,  Commodore !  What  I  have  to  say,  shall 
be  said  some  half  hour  hence,  when  you  have  blown  off  the  last 
of  your  auger.  Will  you  please  to  begin  again,  and  not  stop 
till  you  get  through  ?" 

He  did  begin  again  I  And  his  first  fury,  violent  as  it  was, 
was  a  mere  jest  to  this  one — he  became  actually  insane,  mad- 
dened, frenzied.  More  than  once  Henrietta  felt  herself  in  im- 
minent personal  danger.  It  was  terrific — but  it  was  the  sooner 
over.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  his  strength  was  thoroughly 
exhausted,  and  he  let  himself  drop  into  his  elbow-chair  as 
feeble,  as  helpless,  as  much  in  need  of  a  restorative  as  a  fainting 
girl- 
Henrietta  contemplated  him,  as  he  sat  there  gasping  and 
blowing,  and  blunderingly  wiping  his  inflamed  and  streaming 
face.  At  last  she  spoke — 

"What  I  had  to  say  to  you,  Commodore,  is  this — listen,  for 
believe  me,  it  nearly  concerns  our  future  life." 

"  Go  on,  ma'am." 

"You  know  well  enough  that  I  am  not  subject  to  tempers, 
not  apt  to  speak  from  excitement,  and  not  a  woman  of  vain 
words." 

"Too  much  preface,  ma'am — too  much  preface  by  half." 

"  Very  well ;  to  proceed — I  need  not  remind  you  what  my 
regard  for  you  has  hitherto  been.  You  know  that  I  was  be- 
trothed to  you  at  the  age  of  fifteen — that  you  went  away,  and 
for  twenty  years  was  lost  to  your  family — during  the  whole  of 


M  A  H  I  A  X .  131 

that  time,  even  when  believing  you  to  be  dead,  I  remained 
faithful  to  your  memory.  At  the  end  of  that  time — at  the  age 
of  thirty-five,  I  found  myself  an  old  maid — but  still  an  inde- 
pendent and  happy  old  maid,  with  my  fortune  and  time  at  my 
own  disposal.  Then  you  suddenly  reappeared — unrecogniza- 
ble, a  weather-beaten,  battle-scarred,  disabled  old  man.  And 
when  you  asked  me  to  redeem  the  pledge  I  had  made  you 
twenty  years  before,  I  left  my  free  and  happy  life,  to  become 
your  nurse  and  housekeeper.  You  know  how  light  and  pleasant 
your  amiable  temper  rendered  my  tasks.  Enough!  What  I 
have  been  to  you  for  the  last  fifteen  years,  it  better  becomes 
you  to  remember  than  me  to  recapitulate." 

"  You  are  turning  off  fine  phrases,  I  think,  madam  !" 

'•  I  can  turn  off  coarser  ones,  better  adapted  to  your  com- 
prehension, Commodore  Waugh." 

"Damme,  madam,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  Only  this,"  said  Henrietta,  "I  mean  that  the  scene  of  this 
afternoon,  shall  never  be  repeated  with  impunity — I  mean  if  it 
should  be  repeated,  to  leave  you  at  once  and  for  ever!  And  I 
am  not  one  to  make  vain  threats." 

Had  the  roof  of  the  house  fallen,  had  the  sky  dropped,  had 
the  surface  of  the  earth  collapsed — had  any  of  these  impossible 
things  happened,  the  Commodore  would  not  have  been  more 
completely  astounded,  more  utterly  overwhelmed!  Henrietta 
leave  him  ;  he  do  without  Henrietta  ?  Was  ever  such  a  thing 
heard  of  in  all  life's  impossibilities?  He  sat  back  perfectly 
immoveable,  with  his  eyes  staring  forward  at  her  until  they 
seemed  swelled  to  double  their  usual  size,  and  threatened  with 
the  fate  of  the  proud  frog  in  the  fable.  He  looked  really  pitia- 
ble. Henrietta  proceeded  without  mercy. 

"  Heretofore  I  have  submitted  to  all  your  whims  and  ca- 
prices, because  they  did  not  interfere  with  the  discharge  of  my 
Christian  and  social  duties  ;  I  have  submitted  improperly  even 
liien  perhaps.  I  do  not  know  that  it  was  well  so  to  have 
fostered  your  ill  humors.  But  I  had,  as  I  still  have,  a  very 
strong  attachment  to  you,  wherever  in  nature  the  strange  af- 


132  THE      MISSING       BRIDE. 

fection  could  have  come  from.  Now,  however,  to  rise  a  phrase 
not  too  'fine'  for  your  comprehension,  you  have  got  to  the 
length  of  your  cable  with  me ;  you  can  go  no  further  at  all. 
without  cutting  loose,  breaking  with  me.  What  I  have  done 
for  Edith,  has  been  done  at  my  own  proper  expense.  I  should 
scorn  to  remind  you,  were  it  not  necessary,  that  Old  Field  Cot 
tage  was  a  part  of  my  own  dower — that  Jenny,  whom  I  have 
sent  thither,  was  my  own  woman,  and  that  the  provisions  I  have 
sent,  were  purchased  with  my  own  funds.  I  have  seldom  ap- 
plied to  you,  Commodore  Waugh,  for  money  to  carry  on  the 
household  expenses.  It  seems  very  mean  and  miserable  that  I 
should  have  to  say  these  things  to  you,  but  it  is  absolutely 
needful  to  do  so.  And,  moreover,  I  assure  you,  Commodore, 
that  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  I  am  fully  determined  to  pro- 
vide for  Edith  and  her  little  household ;  and  remember,  she  is 
your  niece,  not  mine.  I  intend  to  send  her  over  the  sofa  and 
the  easy-chair  from  my  bedroom ;  and  also  my  mule  and  the 
pony  that  she  used  to  ride,  and  a  cart-load  of  provender  for 
them.  And  I  shall  also  settle  a  pension  on  her.  This  I  feel 
to  be  incumbent  upon  me,  and  shall  do  it  at  my  own  cost,  and 
Avhether  you  like  it  or  not.  But,  Commodore  Waugh,  I  repeat 
it,  if  you  do  impede  me  in  the  performance  of  my  duties,  if  you 
do  harass,  and  wrong,  and  abuse  me  about  them ;  I  will,  so 
heaven  help  me  !  separate  myself  from  you  at  once  and  forever.'' 

"  You — you — you  are  heated!  You — you  are  angr}7.  Yon 
speak  from  excitement,  Henrietta,"  stuttered  the  confounded 
and  discomfited  old  soldier. 

"  No — I  never  get  excited.  I  am  cooled  by  what  has  passed 
— not  heated.  I  am  not  moved  to  anger,  Commodore,  but  to 
action.  You  know  it.  And  you  know  I  will  keep  my  word. 
For  I  am  not  one  to  use  vain  threats,  or  having  formed  a  reso- 
lution to  repent  of  it,  or  having  taken  a  step  to  retrace  it. 
And  so,  Commodore  Waugh,  I  leave  you  to  think  upon  what 
I  have  said."  And  Henrietta  arose  and  gathered  her  shawl 
around  her  shoulders,  and  went  to  her  chamber  to  take  off  hef 
bonnet  and  prepare  for  tea. 


MARIAN.  l.°>3 

• 

He  sat  there,  immovable — his  nerves  and  brain  almost  in  a 
state  of  disorganization.  "  Think"  of  what  she  had  said  !  He 
didn't  know  /tow  to  think — he  had  never  thought  in  his  life. 
Henrietta  had  always  been  his  thinker — he  had  considered  it  a 
part  of  her  duty.  She  had  always  tliouyht  for  him,  as  she  had 
nursed  him,  kept  house  for  him,  managed  his  farm,  and  ba- 
lanced his  accounts.  And  now,  suddenly  to  call  upon  him  to 
"  think"— the  most  difficult  of  all  the  rest.  He  couldn't  think, 
that  was  all  about  it!  his  brains  were  in  a  state  of  semi- 
decomposition,  and  had  long  ceased  to  perform  any  other 
function  than  that  of  a  very  dull  galvanic  battery,  to  propel 
the  turgid  blood  in  its  downward  ebb.  So  he  sat  there  as 
helpless  as  an  old  lion  without  claws  or  teeth,  feeling  himself  to 
be  not  a  dangerous  brute,  though  he  could  roar  so  terribly. 

Henrietta's  matrimonial  admonition  had  been  administered 
with  all  due  privacy  and  discretion.  Yet  what  is  there  that 
transpires  in  a  house  full  of  servants,  especially  of  old  family 
servants,  who  have  an  interest  beyond  mere  curiosity  in  know- 
ing everything  that  happens,  that  is  not  discovered  and  dis- 
cussed? It  was  therefore  well  ascertained  that  the  Commodore 
had  been  put  down,  that  the  household  "  Thunderer"  had  been 
silenced,  and  that  his  throne  was  a  stool  of  repentance !  And 
so  the  Commodore  shared  the  bitter  fate  of  "  Darius  great  and 
good,"  and  other  fallen  potentates,  and  was  not  only  deserted 
but  derided  "  at  his  utmost  need."  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  kept  a  dis- 
creet distance,  knowing  not  how  to  steer  her  course  to  avoid 
the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  the  opposed  parties.  For  though 
Henrietta  was  decidedly  Lady  Paramount,  yet  the  Commodore 
alone  possessed  the  power  of  bequeathing  Luekenough.  The 
very  servaris  no  longer  flew  to  do  his  bidding — perhaps,  be- 
cause the  dispirited  old  man  had  ceased  to  use  the  moving 
arguments  of  candle-sticks  and  pokers  hurled  at  their  heads 
The  Commodore  was  a  dethroned  despot,  and  so  everybody 
took  sides  against  him. 

Everybody  but  Jacquelina.  It  was  impossible  to  calculate 
what  would  be  that  elf's  course  of  action  in  any  given  case — 


134  THE       MISSING       BRIDE. 

no  conclusion  could  ever  be  drawn  from  her  precedents  or  from 
a  knowledge  of  her  character — it  was  sure  to  deceive.  One 
thing  alone  you  could  reckon  upon — if  you  shou'd  expect  her 
to  pursue  one  course,  you  might  be  sure  she  would  pursue  the 
other.  Upon  this  occasion  any  one  in  the  world  who  knew 
JacqueiSna  and  her  little  eccentric  antecedents,  might  have  rea- 
sonably supposed  that  she  would  have  strongly  opposed  herself 
to  her  uncle.  Not  she.  Now  he  was  the  weaker  party,  and  a 
certain  chivalric  generosity  always  led  Sans  Souci  to  range 
herself  upon  the  weaker  side — very  often  that  was  the  only  test 
of  right  and  wrong,  and  reversing  the  code  of  the  world,  Sans 
Souci  was  too  apt  to  consider  the  weak  and  defeated  always 
right,  and  the  strong  and  victorious  always  wrong.  So  Jac- 
quelina  adhered  to  the  Commodore  in  his  mortification.  She 
hovered  about  him,  ran  his  errands,  picked  over  his  tobacco, 
filled  and  lighted  his  pipes,  combed  his  hair  and  beard,  and  did 
everything  she  could  think  of  to  mitigate  his  case.  And  when 
nothing  could  move  his  melancholy,  she  would  break  out  in 
something  like  the  following  strains  of  flattery  and  consolation  : 

"  Never  you  rniud,  Uncle  Nick  !  Spose  you  were  naughty — 
you've  got  the  same  right  to  be  naughty  that  other  people 
have,  I  reckon,  and  so  dou't  you  feel  cut  up  about  it !" 

"  But  I've  not  been  naughty,  Jacquelina,"  would  the  Com- 
modore answer,  almost  meekly,  "  I  only  wanted  justice — what 
was  in  the  bond,  you  know !" 

"  Never  mind,  Nuuky — never  mind  whether  you  have  or 
not !  You've  got  as  much  right  to  tell  fibs  about  it  as  the 
murderers  have  to  plead  '  not  guilty.'  " 

Oh !  such  a  deep  groan  would  be  the  comment  upon  this ! 

"  Don't  you  take  on  so,  now,  Nunky.  Don't  groan — swear' 
Raise  a  row,  and  make  a  tremendous  noise !  Fire  off  your 
blunderbuss  as  fast  as  ever  you  can  load  it !  And  blow  the 
whole  house  sky  high  I" 

"  Urn — yes — I  know  I  I  should  like  to  do  that — but  then 
Henrietta  would  leave  Die,  Jacko  —  she  would,  as  sure  us 
thoeting?" 


M  A  R  I  A  X.  105 

"  Oo-oo-oo !"  cooed  Sans  Souci,  pursing  up  her  lips  and 
raising  her  eyebrows,  "  is  that  it?  Now  I  know!" 

Soon  after  this,  Jacquelina  took  it  upon  herself  to  arraign 
Henrietta. 

"  Now,  aunty,  just  you  tell  me  what  you've  been  doing  to 
uncle  to  make  him  mope  about  so,  like  a  poor  old  turkey  gob- 
bler with  the  distemper?" 

"  Does  he  ?"  said  Henrietta,  absently. 

"  '  Does  he  ?'  Why  anybody  can  see  he  does  !  He's  lost  all 
his  pleasant  old  ways — he  never  stamps  up  and  down  the  hall 
roaring  and  bellowing  and  scaring  the  old  beams  and  rafters 
into  shaking  agues — and  he  never  throws  the  cats  out  of  the 
window,  nor  kicks  the  dogs,  nor  flings  his  boot-jack  at  Bill's 
head,  nor  does  anything  he  used  to  do  !  He's  lost  all  his  live- 
liness. He'll  pine  away  and  die,  I  know  he  will.  Now  what 
have  you  done  to  him  ?" 

"  Nothing  improper,  Lapwing." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  improper,  I  am  sure,  aunty, 
/think  it  was  shocking  to  treat  him  so.  And  he  the  head  of 
the  family !" 

"  Yes,  but,  my  dear,  suppose  the  'Head'  were  so  heated  and 
inflamed  as  to  be  almost  crazy,  and  in  danger  of  getting  quite 
frantic  and  doing  the  other  members  some  fatal  injury,  wouldn't 
you  clap  a  lump  of  ice  to  the  '  Head'  to  cool  it  down  and  make 
it  sensible?  And  now,  rny  little  Lapwing,  if  you  can  under- 
stand what  I  have  said,  so  much  the  better,  but  whether  you 
can  or  not,  go  now  and  wait  upon  your  uncle,  attend  him  as 
devotedly  as  you  please,  the  better  you  serve  him  the  more  I 
shall  be  satisfied  with  you,  only,  my  dear,  don't  presume  to  lec- 
ture your  aunty,  that  is  quite  beyond  your  province,  my  little 
Lapwing." 

"  Well,  that  is  right  downdacious?"  exclaimed  Jacquelina; 
"  aunty  not  only  mutinies  against  the  Commodore,  but  rebels 
against  me!"  And  from  that  time  Sans  Souci  made  common 
cause  with  her  uncle,  and  became  the  strongest  and  most  un- 
compromising of  allies. 


1 36  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Nevertheless,  Henrietta's  star  was  in  the  ascendant  and 
reigned  supreme.  And  to  do  the  good  creature  justice,  she 
did  no  abuse  her  power.  She  was  more  attentive  than  ever 
fo  the  invalid  soldier,  and  more  careful  than  ever  of  his  inte- 
rests, but  she  did  send  over  the  sofa  and  easy-chair,  and  the 
mule  and  pony,  etc.,  to  Edith,  and  she  did  also  settle  an 
annuity  upon  her — being  the  half  of  her  own  income  from  her 
bank  stock.  As  for  the  Commodore,  when  he  recovered  from 
his  first  panic  of  astonishment,  the  new  necessity  of  moderating 
and  controlling  his  furious  passions  proved  very  beneficial,  not 
only  to  his  moral  but  to  his  physical  health ;  and  he  began  to 
miss  those  sudden  and  violent  attacks  of  illness  that  had  so 
often  brought  him  to  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  that  had 
always  been  traced  back  to  those  frantic  outbreaks  of  temper 
as  their  cause.  Not  that  the  old  soldier  was  wholly  reformed 
in  that  respect.  By  no  means — a  sudden  and  total  suppression 
of  his  passions  might  have  killed  him ;  but  he  was  so  modified 
and  improved  that  life  at  Luckenough  grew  much  brighter  and 
more  comfortable. 


CHAPTER    X. 


HOUSEKEEPING     AT     OLD     FIELD     COTTAGE 

"  She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things. 

And  though  she  seems  of  other  birth, 
Yet  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 

To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 
She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone  or  despise, 
For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

Is  low  esteemed  in  her  eyes." — Lowell. 

IT  was  a  very  interesting  little  family  that  settled  down  at  the 
bay-side  cottage — the  tiny  family  of  three  in  all. 

There  was  Edith,  with  her  low  illness  and  her  still  sorrow — 


HOUSEKEEPING  AT  OLD  FIELD  COTTAGE.  137 

her  sorrow  that  had  passed  through  all  its  violent,  passionate, 
and  frenzied  stages,  and  had  settled  into  this  deep,  calm  de- 
spair, out  of  which,  if  you  will  be  patient  with  her,  it  will  also 
pass,  for  Providence  is  a  wise,  beneficent  father,  and  Nature  is 
u  tender  nursing  mother,  and  they  will  bring  her  through. 
Foi  the  present  blame  her  not  that  she  lay  upon  her  lounge  al- 
ways as  still  as  death,  with  her  slender  white  hands  clasped 
above  her  head,  and  her  handkerchief  thrown  over  her  eyes,  as 
if  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  all  earthly  objects — that  she  lay  there 
with  her  fair  face  growing  paler,  and  its  blue  shadows  deeper, 
da}r  by  day. 

There  was  Marian,  beautiful  and  blooming  Marian,  with  her 
young  wisdom,  her  cheerful  temper,  and  her  ready  sympathies 
— with  her  swift,  light  step,  her  busy,  nimble  fingers,  and  her 
prompt,  despatchful  industry.  She  cheerfully  and  confidently 
assumed  the  whole  care  and  responsibility  of  the  small  house- 
hold, and  diligently  occupied  herself  with  its  interests,  and 
with  manifold,  affectionate  preparations  for  the  welcome  of  the 
little  pilgrim,  who,  she  trusted,  would  shortly  bring  hope  and 
love  back  to  the  young  widowed  mother's  heart,  and  sunshine 
and  gladness  to  her  humble  home. 

Lastly,  there  was  Jenny,  with  her  indefatigable  hands,  and, 
alas !  her  indefatigable  tongue,  too — a  source  of  ever  fresh  en- 
tertainment to  the  English  girl,  to  whom  negro  character,  not 
as  it  is  falsely  presented  in  books  or  comic  songs,  but  as  it 
really  exists  in  the  south,  full  of  indestructible  self-esteem,  dis- 
interested affections,  and  audacious  wit  and  humor,  was  en- 
tirely new,  quaint,  and  piquant.  Not  the  least  amusing  to 
Marian  was  the  air  of  perfect  kindness  and  sincerity  with  which 
Jenny  approved  and  patronized  her,  telling  her  that — the  Eng- 
lish were  "  Jes  as  good  as  white  people  when  they  'haved  their- 
Eelves."  And  often  the  maiden's  merry  laugh  would  have  rung 
out  in  silvery  cadences,  but  that  it  was  arrested  on  her  budding 
lips  by  the  thought  of  the  suffering  mourner  on  the  softi,  to 
whom  laughter,  sunlight,  and  music,  were  as  yet  insupportable. 

Marian   busied   herself  with  making  the  tin}  cottage  more 


135  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

comfortable  and  attractive.  Remember  it  had  but  two  rooms, 
one  below  and  one  above,  the  upper  one  being  nothing  but  a 
chamber  in  the  roof.  And  Marian  thanked  Heaven  that  it 
would  take  but  very  small  means  to  furnish  both  as  neatly  and 
prettily  as  needful,  thus  naturally  with  her  bright,  cheerful  tem- 
per, finding  in  the  very  meagreness  of  space  a  cause  of  con- 
gratulation. Marian  set  about  preparing  and  adorning  that 
upper  room  for  Edith.  It  was  a  very  fair  sized  chamber, 
coarsely  lathed  and  plastered,  and  roughly  floored,  and  had  a 
good  sized  window  at  each  end.  The  east  one  with  a  view  01 
the  bay,  the  west  with  one  of  the  forest.  The  only  furniture 
of  the  room  was  two  bedsteads  and  beds,  covered  with  blue 
checked  counterpanes,  and  a  tall,  three-legged,  old  pine  toilet- 
table,  without  cover  or  looking-glass.  Marian  and  Edith  occu- 
pied this  only  sleeping-room,  while  Jenny  slept  down  stairs 
upon  a  mattrass  that  was  taken  up  every  morning. 

Bnt  Marian,  as  I  said,  set  about  preparing  and  adorning  this 

humble  chamber  for  Edith.  She  went  to  B ,  and  by  the 

sacrifice  of  a  rich  pearl  brooch,  an  heir-loom  and  Marian's 
only  ornarment,  she  procured  money  to  buy  her  materials  and 
send  them  home  in  a  hired  cart.  And  the  next  day  all  her  im- 
provements were  so  quietly  made,  as  not  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  Edith,  lying  still  upon  the  sofa,  with  the  handkerchief 
over  her  face. 

And  now  see  the  room  after  Marian  had  metamorphosed  it. 
The  walls  were  whitewashed — the  floor  covered  with  delicate 
straw  matting — the  two  beds  with  fine  white  counterpanes — the 
two  windows  were  shaded  with  plain,  deep-blue  paper  blinds, 
and  draped  with  clear  white  muslin  curtains;  and  her  toilet- 
table  covered  with  a  top-piece  and  valance  of  white  dimity,  and 
adorned  with  a  bright  little  looking-glass,  and  a  pretty  bottle 
of  cologne,  a  tasteful  pincushion,  and  other  little  matters. 
Opposite  this  toilet  was  a  new  wash-stand,  with  a  pure  white 
service  Near  Edith's  bed  was  an  invalid's  chair,  with  a  foot 
cushion.  And  there  were  two  plain  stands,  and  two  other 
chairs.  Lastly,  in  one  corner,  stood  a  pretty  new  cradle,  aL 


HOUSEKEEPING   AT    OLD    FIELD    COTTAGE.    139 

made  up  with  its  little  bed  and  pillow  and  sheets — Marian's 
stolen,  delightful  work  for  a  week  past,  and  all  covered  by 
the  finest  white  Marseilles  quilt.  It  was  near  evening  when  the 
room  was  finished,  and  Marian  stood  with  her  cheeks  glowing 
with  exercise  and  satisfaction,  contemplating  her  work — she 
thought  the  pearl  brooch  well  bestowed,  and  never  did  the 
vainest  beauty  enjoy  the  display  of  her  costliest  jewels  as 
Mariac  enjoyed  this  appropriation  of  her  only  one.  Ah,  if 
Marian  could  only  have  had  in  addition  to  the  satisfaction  of 
doing  good,  the  pleasure  of  giving  delight!  But  that  she 
knew  was  impossible — she  could  not  give  Edith  delight; 
nothing  could  do  so.  And  her  unspoken  conclusion  was  en- 
dorsed by  Jenny,  who  was  tripping  daintily  over  the  clean 
straw  matting,  and  settling  here  and  there  a  fold  of  the  white 
draperies. 

"But  Lor'  Gimini !  it  aint  de  fuss  bit  o' use,  far  as  she's 
'cerned !  It's  ebery  singly  bit  hev  away  on  she!  ten  to  one 
she'll  not  'serve  whedder  dese  yere  nice  'Sales  quilts  aint  dem. 
der  funnelly  ole  blue  cottin  couuterpins  !  'Clare  to  Marster  in 
hebben,  ef  it  aint  right  'scouraging  to  see  how  she  do  go  on 
layin'  eberlastin'  on  dat  sofa,  like  a  dead  corpse  laid  out !" 

"We  must  have  patience,  and  leave  her  to  Nature  a  little 
longer.  I  have  the  greatest  faith  in  Nature.  'Nature,'  you 
know,  '  is  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord  !'  " 

"  Is  she  ?     I  nebber  hear  tell  o'  dat  before.     Yes,  but  now  I 
thinks  ob  it,  some  handmaids  'lects  ob  der  duty,  an'  idles  about.  . 
Maybe  dat's  de  way  Nater  do  !     Leastways,  ef  Nater  didn't 
get  Miss  Edy  out  o'  dat  der  putty  soon,  I'd  try  somet'in'  else — 
'deed  me  !" 

Marian  smiled,  and  they  went  below — Jenny  to  get  tea,  and 
Marian  to  sit  down  by  Edith's  couch  and  ply  her  needle,  her 
rosy  fingers  flying  like  a  bird. 

At  night,  when  Marian  helped  Edith  up  stairs — Jenny  at- 
tending with  a  light — the  invalid  entered  the  chamber,  casting 
her  eyes  around  in  a  languid,  absent  manner,  that  left  it  in  doubt 
whether  or  not  she  saw  the  change.  Even  the  vexed  exclama- 


140  THE      MISsING      BRIDE. 

tion  of  Jenny — "Dar  den!  what  I  tell  you?  She  don't  notice 
a  singly  thing  !" — failed  to  attract  her  attention. 

But  Marian  led  her  up  to  the  little  cradle,  and  asked, 

"What  do  you  think  of  this,  dear  Edith  ?" 

The  widow  cast  a  weary,  saddened  glance  upon  the  pretty 
novelty,  and  turning  away  her  eyes,  said,  mournfully, 

"It's  no  use  dear;  the  child  will  die." 

"  Xot  a  bit  of  it!"  said  Marian,  cheerfully,  "the  child  will 
live !" 

No  more  was  said  then.  Edith  had  spoken  more  than  she 
had  at  any  one  time  since  her  bereavement,  and  Marian  hailed 
it  as  a  promising  symptom.  And  she  thought  that  the  time 
had  now  come  when  it  was  right  to  modify  her  "  let-alone" 
system  in  regard  to  Edith — when  the  mourner  might  be  gently 
drawn,  without  pain,  from  her  self-absorption,  and  interested  in 
the  business  of  life  and  the  hopes  of  the  future.  And  Marian 
resolved  to  proceed  accordingly. 

The  next  day  Edith  lay  as  usual  upon  the  lounge,  with  her 
arms  laid  up  above  her  head,  her  slender  white  hands  clasped, 
and  the  handkerchief  thrown  over  her  face. 

And  Marian  sat  near  her,  busy  with  her  needlework,  her  rosy 
fingers  flying  with  their  usual  celerity.  She  was  a  dear,  pleasant 
girl,  and  a  beautiful  creature  to  look  at  as  she  sat  there.  Do 
you  see  her?  in  her  plain,  light-blue  gingham  dress,  with  her 
plump,  rosy  arms  and  neck,  and  her  fresh  and  blooming  cheeks, 
and  full,  ripe  lips,  and  clear,  kind,  blue  eyes,  and  golden  bron/e 
hair,  rippling  in  bright  wavelets  off  her  white  forehead,  and 
gathered  in  a  burnished  knot  behind,  from  which  here  and  there 
a  stray  tress  twists  itself  out  in  a  tiny,  glittering,  spiral  ringlet  ? 
Do  you  see  her,  as  she  bends  lightly  over  her  work,  with  her 
flying  fingers — a  work  that  never  seemed  toil,  so  pleasantly  was 
it  done,  and  so  cheerful  was  her  countenance,  and  so  happy  her 
voice.  At  length  she  took  from  her  work-basket  a  tiny  pair  of 
infant's  socks,  that  she  had  knit  of  white  lamb's  wool — now 
Marian  thought  if  there  was  any  article  of  a  baby's  dress  pretty, 
suggestive,  and  even  touching,  it  was  the  little  socks  —  so  holding 
chein  towards  Edith,  she  said, 


HOUSEKEEPING  AT  OLD  FIELD  COTTAGE.  141 

"How  do  yen  like  these,  dta..  Edith  ?  do  you  think  they  will 
do?" 

The  mourner  did  not  hear ;  but  upon  Marian's  repeating  the 
question,  she  drew  the  handkerchief  from  her  face,  and  turned 
her  eyes  upon  her  sister. 

"How  do  you  like  these  little  socks,  Edith?  Please  look  at 
them.  I  think  they  are  pretty — and  I  have  other  pairs — rose- 
colored,  and  straw-colored,  and  azure." 

"  Trifles  !  trifles  !  and  useless — all !"  said  the  sufferer,  turning 
away  her  face.  "  Oh,  Marian  1  make  two  shrouds  instead.  We 
shall  die — I  and  my  child." 

"  Not  you.  Xot  either  of  you.  You  will  live,  and  learn  to 
enjoy  life,"  said  Marian,  cheerfully,  as  she  resumed  her  work. 

"But,  Marian,  I  wish  that  we  may  die!  I  hope  and  pray  to 
die,  with  all  the  poor,  feeble  power  of  hoping  and  praying  that 
is  left  in  this  broken  heart  1  I  hope  and  pray  to  die.  It  is  all 
that  I  have  left  to  wish  for  !" 

"  You  have  much  better  things  than  that  to  hope  for,  dear 
Edith." 

"  Oli  I  Marian  !  do  you  know — can  you  know  how  hopeless, 
how  joyless  the  future  spreads  before  me  ?  How  loathsome  is 
life — how  welcome  would  be  death  !" 

"But  you  will  get  over  this,  dearest,  dearest  sister,  you  will 
get  over  this.  You  are  so  young  yet,  dear  Edith — only  three 
or  four  years  older  than  myself." 

"  So  young,  am  I !"  repeated  the  mourner,  in  a  voice  of  de- 
spair—" so  young  am  I !  Ah !  that  is  the  very  worst  of  all — 
the  worst  of  all  that  is  left,  I  mean — to  think  that  I  should  have 
to  carry  this  aching  heart,  this  sore,  sore  heart  through  all  the 
stages  of  life  down  to  deep  old  age !  Long  ago,  long  ago  I 
would  have  quieted  this  aching,  throbbing  heart,  whose  every 
pulse  is  a  pang,  in  the  first  deep  water  that  offered  a  resting 
place,  but  for  the  fear  of  God  !" 

"You  forbore  to  die  for  the  fear  of  God,  go  a  step  higher, 
dearest  Edith,"  said  Marian,  her  young  face  in  a  glow  of  faith 
and  hope,  "  resolve  to  live  for  the  love  of  God !" 


142  THE      MISSING      '.BRIDE. 

"I  cannot!  oh,  I  cannot,  Marian!  I  have  no  strength  a^d 
no  desire  for  strength  to  live.  Prometheus  chained  to  his  rock 
with  the  vultures  preying  on  his  vitals.  Such  should  I  be, 
bound  to  life  with  this  devouring  grief  eating  out  my  heart  > 
Oh!  this  gnawing,  gnawing  worm  of  grief!  I  cannot,  canno* 
bear  it  through  long  years  of  life  !" 

"Nor  will  you  be  called  to  bear  it  long.  Nature  will  heal 
the  bruised  heart,  you  will  be  drawn  out  among  your  brothers 
and  sisters  of  this  earth,  you  will  lose  the  intensity  of  your  own 
grief  in  seeing  how  many  people  there  are  in  the  world  as  sorely, 
aj  heavily  beravecl  as  yourself,  yet  living  on  in  the  cheerful  per- 
formance of  life's  duties — you  will  find  people  to  whom  your 
lie  will  be  of  the  greatest  service,  and  you  will  find  some  who 
will  love  you  tenderly,  as  I  do,  Edith.  And  finally  you  will  re- 
cover and  forget  your  early  sorrows,  and  will  live  a  long  and 
useful  and  happy  life  I" 

"Forget  I  /forget !  Oh  I  no,  no,  no,  no !  Oh !  never,  never ! 
I  can  never  forget  him — could  I  ever  forget  Michael  ?  Oh ! 
Michael !  Michael !"  she  cried,  passionately  bursting  into  a  vehe- 
ment fit  of  weeping,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

Marian's  bosom  heaved,  and  the  tears  swelled  to  her  eyes,  but 
she  repressed  her  emotion,  though  her  voice  faltered  when  she 
spoke  again. 

"No,  you  will  never  forget  him,"  she  said,  gently,  "that  is 
not  what  I  mean,  or  wish.  His  pure  life,  his  lovely  self-devotion, 
and  his  early  martyrdom,  you  can  never  cease  to  remember. 
But  memory  will  cease  to  be  the  poignant  anguish  that  it  is — it 
will  become  a  gentle  melancholy,  when  you  will  speak  of  him 
without  pain — then  a  tender  reminiscence,  when  you  will  love  to 
talk  of  him — and  lastly,  a  sweet,  solemn,  holy  thought,  verging 
into  a  divine  hope,  which  you  will  not  care  to  speak  of,  but 
will  ponder  in  your  heart.  And  this  sweet  time  will  come,  dea? 
Edith,  when  the  pang  of  the  violent  severance  of  persons  is  over, 
and  you  begin  to  feel  the  impression  of  his  continued  existence — 
his  great  spiritual  life — and  of  his  frequent  presence  and  loving 
watchfulness  over  you.  You  will  feel  this — you  will  feel,  hi 


HOUSEKEEPING    AT   OLD   FIELD   COTTAGE.    143 

some  respects,  a  closer  union  with  him  than  you  had  before. 
You  shake  your  head,  dear  Edith  !  You  do  not  feel  that  no\v  ? 
I  know  you  do  not !  no  mourner  does  in  the  first  bitter  days  of 
bereavement.  Your  intense  longing  for  the  bodily  presence,  your 
despair  and  your  unbelief,  keep  out  his  pure  spirit,  that  would 
visit  and  bless  you — bless  you  in  the  divine,  new  intelligence  he 
would  inspire  in  your  brain,  and  the  heavenly  charity  he  would 
breathe  in  your  heart.  So  come  the  ministering  spirits  of  the 
departed  to  their  loved  ones  on  earth — not  manifesting  them- 
selves to  sight  or  hearing — for  disembodied  spirits  do  not  act 
with  material  organs  upon  material  senses — but  visiting  us  in 
spiritual  impressions,  in  beautiful  inspirations.  So  come  the 
heavenly  ones,  dearest  Edith !" 

"You  speak  like  one  acquainted  with  grief — yet  you  cannot 
be,  Marian.  You !  a  young  blooming,  happy  girl." 

"You  think  so!  yet  I  am  an  orphan,  dear  Edith.  Before  I 
saw  you,  I  had  lost  every  one  in  the  world  who  loved  me — there 
was  not  one  left.  I  saw  my  father  die — then  my  mother — and 
Michael's  father,  whom  I  dearly  loved — and  lastly,  Michael. 
Do  you  think  I  am  heartless,  dear  Edith  ?  Do  you  think  I  did 
not  share  your  grief  for  Michael  ?  I  did — not  in  the  same 
intensity,  for  I  know  and  realize  what  that  which  we  call  death 
really  is.  I  have  felt  the  spirits  of  my  loved  departed  revisit 
me  again  ;  I  have  felt  them  in  the  deeper  insight  into  spiritual 
things,  in  the  increased  joys  of  my  soul's  life — in  its  enlarged 
affections,  elevated  thoughts,  and  accession  of  faith  and  hope 
and  love  1  I  feel  that  Michael  watches  over  us — not  only  from 
his  heavenly  home — but  he  draws  near  to  us — he  sees  all  that  I 
am  trying  to  do  to  reconcile  you  to  life ;  and  that  helps  me  to 
persevere.  Dearest  Edith,  it  is  only  the  bitterness  of  your  sor- 
row that  keeps  you  from  realizing  this  consolation — but  that 
will  have  an  end,  and  then  you  will  find  even  in  this  world,  him 
whom  you  think  you  have  lost !" 

"  Never !  Never !  for  the  bitterness  of  death  will  never  have 
passed." 

"It  will,  dear  Edith !     I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in 


144  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

this  world — much  of  my  own,  and  much  more  of  other  people's 
— yet  I  never  new  a  sorrow  either  of  my  own  or  others,  that 
time  and  nature  and  Providence  did  not  cure !  The  world  could 
not  be  carried  on  else.  Life  would  stop,  if  every  bereaved  heart 
buried  itself  in  the  grave  of  its  dead.  And  what  indeed  have 
Christians  to  do  with  the  grave?  has  not  Christ  gained  the  vic- 
tory over  it  once  and  forever?  What  is  the  grave,  but  the 
packing  place  for  the  worn-out  habiliments  of  the  soul ;  our  loved 
ones  are  'not  there,  but  risen.'  If  we  do  not  feel  it  so,  then  is 
our  religion  a  cold  Theology — a  soulless  body  of  a  creed — and 
Christ,  the  Redeemer,  has  lived  and  died,  and  ASCENDED  in  vain  !" 
said  Marian,  with  her  beautiful  face  transfigured  by  inspiration. 
And  all  this  time,  while  she  spoke  such  high  truths  in  her 
young  wisdom,  her  slender  fingers  flew,  plying  her  humble  house- 
hold needle. 


CHAPTER    XL 

THE       MAY      BLOSSOM. 

"  I  would  more  spirits  were  like  tbine, 
That  never  casts  a  gloom  before — 
Thou  Hebe!  who  thy  heart's  rich  wine 
So  lavishly  to  all  dost  pour  I"— Lowell. 

"  WILL  you  look  at  the  baby  now,  dear  Edith  ?" 
It  was  a  fair  scene  and  hour — a  pleasant,  moonlight  evening. 
«arly  in  May,  and  the  humble  attic  chamber  at  Old  Field  Cot- 
tage seemed  lovely  as  the  interior  of  some  fairy  temple.  The 
two  white  draperied  beds  stood  at  opposite  corners,  on  each 
side  of  the  east  window,  and  with  wide  space  between  them. 
The  window-curtains  of  white  muslin  were  looped  aside,  giving 
a  clear  view  of  the  open  sea,  and  admitting  the  moon  rays,  that 
filled  the  room  with  a  lovely,  soft  light. 


TKE      MAY      BLOSSOM.  145 

Upon  the  right-hand  bed,  in  a  soft  mist  of  white  drapery, 
reposed  Edith.  Since  the  advent  of  her  child,  six  hours  before, 
she  had  lain  in  the  healthful  sleep  of  physical  weariness.  She 
was  not  only  "  as  well,"  but  better  than  "  could  be  expected  " 
And  at  last  she  awoke,  and  Marian  raised  the  infant  in  her 
arms,  and  standing-  at  the  mother's  bedside,  said, 

"  Will  you  look  at  the  baby  now,  dear  Edith  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no,  no — I  cannot — I  cannot !"  said  the  invalid,  turn- 
ing away,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

She  was  thinking,  poor,  fond  mourner,  of  him  who  lay 
"  sleeping  in  his  bloody  shroud." 

"  Please  look  at  the  poor  baby,  Edith,  wont  you  ?  Please 
kiss  her,  and  bless  her,  and  then  I  will  take  her  away." 

"Oh!  don't  ask  me!  Oh!  I  cannot  now — not  just  now — 
when  I'm  feeling — if  he'd  lived — how  fond — how  happy — " 
here  the  voice  gave  way,  and  the  low  sound  of  weeping  was 
heard. 

Marian  crossed  the  room,  and  turned  down  her  own  cover,  and 
laid  the  little  one  in  her  own  bed. 

But  Jenny,  who  stood  there  stirring  pap,  was  scandalized, 
was  indignant. 

"Humph!  So  Nater  is  de  hand-maid  o' de  Lord,  is  she? 
Well !  for  my  part,  I  does  think  she's  a  good-for-nothing,  'lect- 
ful  huzzy,  as  ever  I  see  !  An'  she  'serves  to  be  sold  to  Georgy ! 
she  do !  An'  so  I  means  to  'form  my  'Vine  Marster,  next  time 
I  pray  to  Him  !" 

"  N'importe,"  said  Marian,  smiling,  and  speaking  to  herself, 
"laissez  faire." 

"  Lazy  fair !  Yes  !  she  may  be  a  lazy  fair ;  but  I  tells  you 
what — if  she  was  a  lazy  darky,  I  know  what  'ould  come  of  her  ! 
'Deed  me  !" 

Marian  laughed  her  low,  musical  laugh. 

"  Indeed.  Jenny,  if  it  were  not  for  your  company,  I  don't 
know  that  I  could  keep  up  my  spirits  all  the  time  !" 

"No,  honey,  likely  .not,  indeed  chile — 'cause  you  see,  my 
Viety  was  always  'sidered  edifyin',  an'  'sides  which.,  I'se  hncl  a 


146  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

good  deal  of  aperients  in  life,  which  has  'pared  me  to  be  a 
guide  to  de  young.  An'  den  I  ain't  proud,  chile,  'deed  rne ! 
pride's  sinful,  an'  I  don't  'dulge  in  it — as  you  knows  yourself 
— for,  dough  you're  an  Englisher,  I  talks  as  free  to  you  as  if 
you  wer'  a  white  'ornan — if  I  did  come  o'  de  great  fam'bly  o' 
de  Kalougus  1  Sure  we're  all  ekal  in  de  sight  o'  Marster  !" 

"But,  Jenny,"  said  Marian,  smiling,  "/came  of  an  older 
and  greater  family  than  the  Kalougas." 

"  Lor',  honey  !  How  could  that  be  ?  And  were  you  a  lady 
born,  sure  enough  ?" 

Marian  nodded  and  smiled. 

"A  fam'bly  greater  than  the  Kalougus?  But,  Lor,'  honey, 
that's  unpossible.  Der  couldn't  be  no  famb'ly  no  greater  dan  de 
Kalougus  I" 

"Yes,  there  can,  and  there  is,  and  I  belong  to  it !" 

"  An'  what  fara'bly  is  it,  den,  honey  ?" 

"Adam's,"  said  Marian,  gravely  and  earnestly. 

"Adams!  You  don't  say  so,  chile!  Well,  dat  is  quality, 
sure  'nough  !  Why,  de  Presiden'  ob  de  Benighted  States,  is 
John — John — Pearry?  no!  Quincy  Adams!  aint  he?  But, 
Lor' !  I  neber  knowed  how  he  had  any  English  'lations  !  An' 
so  you'se  a  lady  born,  Miss  Marian  !  "Well,  who'd  a  b'lieved  it  I 
Dough,  to  tell  Marstcr's  truflfe,  I'd  a  b'lieved  it !  'Cause  you 
nebber  did  look  like  any  o'  dese  yer  poor  white  people — 'deed 
you !  You  always  had  long  o'  you,  a  sort  of  a — sort  of  a — 
gov'ning,  'manding  sort  of  way — quiet,  too — like  you  was  used 
to  it!  Lor' !  you  must  o'  had  a  heap  o'  land  and  niggers !" 

"No,  I  never  had  either." 

"Lord,  chile!  dat's  missfortunit !  You  come  o'  what's 
called  'cayed  gentility  ?" 

"Yes." 
;I  might  o'  knowed  it!" 

"  The  family  I  belong  to — Adam's  family — is  very  large,  and 
though  some  of  its  members  are  very  wealthy,  and  very  noble, 
and  even  royal,  yet  some  are  also  very  poor  and  needy — I  belong 
*G  the  poor. 


THE      MAY      BLOSSOM.  147 

"Well,  den,  honey,  all  I  sez  is,  how  your  nch  'lations  ought 
to  do  something  fur  yer.  An'  ef  I  wer'  you,  soon  as  ebber  Miss 
Edy  'covers  of  her  'finement,  I'd  go  right  up  to  Washington 
an'  I'd  set  right  down  on  top  o'  ole  John  Quincy  Adams — dat's 
what  I'd  do — jes'  as  I  telled  Miss  Mary  'bout  our  ole  Marse  I 
nn'  she  tuk  my  'vice,  an'  now  see  what  her  prospects  is !  all 
along  o'  takin'  good  'vice.  Now,  you  take  my  'vice,  Miss 
Marian,  and  see  what'll  come  of  it.  Take  my  'vice.  I'se  an 
ole  'oman  as  is  had  aperients  !" 

"But,"  said  Marian,  laughing,  "Mr.  Adams  is  a  very,  very 
distant  relative,  and  I  even  doubt  if  he'd  acknowledge  the  re- 
lationship. 

"  'Deed  he  !  proud  to  do  it !  an'  you  so  han'some  !" 

Marian  smiled,  and  blushed — she  could  not  deceive  even  in 
jest. 

"  I  must  explain  all  about  this  great  old  family  to  you  to- 
morrow, Jenny,"  she  said. 

"Do,  chile  !  I  loves  dearly  to  tell  'bout  de  quality." 

And  all  this  time  while  they  talked,  Marian's  busy  hands 
were  going  as  fast  as  ever.  She  was  preparing  some  cool,  light 
f'arinacious  food  for  Edith.  When  it  was  ready,  she  took  it 
to  the  bedside  and  persuaded  her  patient  to  swallow  a  few 
spoonsful.  Then  she  handed  the  little  waiter,  with  the  bowl 
and  spoon,  to  Jenny,  saying, 

"  Now,  Jenny,  you  may  go  down  stairs  and  spread  your  mat- 
*-•»:••;;  ana  go  to  bed.  I  intend  to  sit  up.  But  be  sure  to  leave 
some  fire  in  the  fire-place,  and  a  kettle  of  water,  in  case  Edith 
should  need  something  in  the  night.  I  also  shall  want  to  come 
down  and  make  myself  a  cup  of  tea  towards  midnight,  to  keep 
me  awake  till  morning." 

"You  'tends  for  to  kill  yourself!  You  jes'  do!  Up  all  las 
night,  and  up  to-night!  I  wont  'mit  of  it!  'deed  me!  Jos' 
yon  go  'trait  'long  to  bed.  I  gwine  for  to  set  up  myself,  'aeed 
me  !" 

But  the  young  nurse  was  peremptory,  and  the  old  woman  n.id 
to  yield  and  go  down  stairs,  grumbling. 


148  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

Nothing  could  equal  the  tact  and  tenderness  of  this  young 
watcher  in  the  sick  room. 

It  is  true  she  sat  by  the  east  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
scene — upon  the  barren  waste  that  lay  between  the  cottage  and 
the  beach,  and  upon  the  sea,  into  which  the  crescent  moon  was 
just  sinking,  striking  a  slender  line  of  diamond  light  across  the 
waves. 

But  at  every  moan  or  restless  motion  of  her  patient,  she  was 
softly  and  silently  at  her  bedside  to  render  assistance.  Her 
services  were  so  quiet,  yet  so  effectual,  they  seemed  like  the 
charmed  ministry  of  some  spirit — loving — silent — and  invisible. 
There  was  nothing  in  her  mute  footfall,  and  nothing  in  the  color 
or  material  of  her  soft,  gray  gown,  to  annoy  sensitive  sight  or 
hearing,  and  the  tones  of  her  voice  possessed  the  spell  of  sooth- 
ing. The  beautiful  girl  knew  this,  for  she  had  studied  it,  and 
therefore  she  would  not  resign  the  duty  that  she  felt  no  one  else 
could  fulfill  as  well  as  herself!  And  so  she  sat  up  night  after 
night.  And,  in  truth,  several  successive  nights'  watching  did 
not  seem  to  hurt  her  iu  the  least  degree.  A  short  nap  at  noon, 
when  both  the  mother  and  child  were  asleep,  seemed  sufficient 
to  restore  her.  The  finely  organized  creature  had  such  a  great 
fund  of  health  and  vital  energy. 

Upon  the  fourth  day,  Edith  sat  up  in  her  easy-chair.  Marian 
had  wrapped  her  tenderly  in  the  new,  soft,  white  flannel  dress- 
ing-gown that  she  made  for  her,  and  laid  her  gently  back 
among  the  downy  pillows  of  the  chair.  Then  she  softly  combed 
out  the  silken  tresses  of  her  hair,  turning  the  slight  flossy  black 
ringlets  around  her  fingers,  until  they  fell  like  raveled  silk  each 
side  the  pearly  forehead,  and  played  in  wavering  shadows  over 
the  thin,  fair,  spiritual  face.  Marian  thought  she  never  had 
seen  so  lovely  a  face.  And  she  took  a  little  hand-mirror  from 
the  toilet-table  and  held  it  before  Edith  ;  but  as  soon  as  EdkU 
caught  the  beautiful  reflection  of  her  own  face — to  Marian's  sur- 
prise— she  suddenly  threw  up  her  hands  and  disheveled  all  her 
nair,  and  hiding  her  face  in  the  pillows,  burst  into  an  unccn- 
rrolable  lit  of  weeping.  She  wa?  thinkinjr  of  those  dear,  lo*ed 


THE      MAY      BLOSSOM.  149 

(•yes,  now  closed  in  death — those  fond,  appreciating  eyes  that 
had  so  delighted  to  watch  every  change  of  her  changeful  face! 
The  merest  trifle  sometimes !  the  fall  of  her  eyelashes,  the  wa- 
vering shade  upon  her  fair  cheek  of  some  straying  ringlet — all 
had  a  poetic  charm  for  him!  Everything,  everything — even  her 
own  beauty  brought,  back  so  vividly  the  image  of  him  she  had 
lost !  Now  that  he  could  no  longer  rejoice  in  her  beauty,  she 
felt  it  to  be  painful — to  be  almost  wrong  to  be  beautiful  for 
other  people's  pleasure !  And  she  felt  it  would  be  a  sort  of 
satisfaction  to  look  plain  and  homely.  And  she  understood 
how  it  must  have  been  that  the  old  time,  ugly,  and  repulsive 
"widow's  cap"  and  "weeds"  must  have  originated,  not  as  a 
mere  form,  but  in  some  sick,  sick  heart  that  felt  just  as  she  did. 

Marian  stood  by  Edith's  side,  patient  and  cheerful  as  usual, 
until  the  storm  of  gi'ief  had  passed,  and  then  she  said, 

"  Let  me  make  you  tidy,  dear  Edith.  You  know  your  Aunt 
Henrietta  will  be  here  in  a  very  few  minutes  n'ow,  and  it  would 
give  her  pain  to  see  you  this  way." 

"  Well — well — comb  my  hair  if  you  must,  but  comb  the  curia 
out  straight,  and  turn  them  plainly  off  my  forehead.  I  cannot 
bear  to  look  as  I  used  to." 

Marian  humored  the  invalid.  And  Edith,  with  her  silky 
black  hair  parted  over  her  fair  brow,  and  half  covered  with  the 
little  delicate  lace  cap,  looked  lovelier  than  before.  It  was  im- 
possible to  mar  the  beauty  of  that  face.  But  Marian  kept  the 
glass  at  a  safe  distance,  wisely  resolving  not  to  wound  the  sensi- 
tive young  widow  again  with  the  sight  of  her  own  loveliness. 

In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  Mrs.  Waugh  arrived  in  her  car- 
riage, and  very  much  inclined  to  scold  Marian  for  not  having 
sent  her  word  of  "the  event"  till  the  evening  before. 

"But  you  know,"  said  Marian,  "I  had  no  one  to  send  but 
Jenny,  and  it  was  impossible  to  spare  her  for  the  first  three 
days.  Besides  there  was  no  very  imminent  necessity.  Edith 
was  doing  very  well,  and  it  is  just  as  pleasant  to  you  to  come 
now  and  find  her  sitting  up." 

And  then  they  entered  Edith's  chamber 
12* 


loO  THE      MISSINfi      BRIDE. 

The  young  mother  sat  as  Marian  had  arranged  her,  looking 
the  very  picture  of  fragile,  spiritual  beauty.  Upon  her  lap,  no 
longer  banished,  lay  the  baby. 

Henrietta  was  very  tender-hearted,  and  this  touching  sight, 
of  the  widowed  young  mother  and  her  new-born  babe,  impressed 
her  to  tears.  She  went  up,  very  softly,  however,  and  kissed 
Edith,  and  sat  down  and  talked  with  her  very  quietly,  and  after 
a  little  while  took  the  baby  upon  her  own  lap,  and  began  to 
admire  her. 

"And  what  is  to  be  her  name,  Edith?"  inquired  Mrs 
Waugh. 

Nobody  had  thought  of  that.  Marian  could  not  tell.  Edith 
did  not  answer. 

"  She  must  be  baptized,  you  know." 

"  I  had  not  remembered  it." 

"  You  had  better  call  her  '  Marian ;'  I  am  sure  there  is  no 
one  who  so  well  deserves  the  compliment." 

"  No — Marian  is  my  good  angel — but — Marian  !  what  was 
his  mother's  name  ?  strange !  I  never  knew — he  never  chanced 
to  tell  me ;  but  then  we  were  so  little  time  together ;  and  his 
mother  must  have  died  before  his  recollection,"  said  Edith,  her 
voice  almost  drowned  in  unshed  tears. 

"  She  did.  Her  name  was  Miriam — she  was  a  Jewess  of  the 
same  tribe  as  his  father." 

"Then  let  my  child  be  called  Miriam,"  said  Edith. 

Mrs.  Waugh  had  brought  her  carnage  packed  full  of  things 
— pots  of  preserves  and  sweetmeats ;  jars  of  jelly  and  jam  ; 
packages  of  loaf  sugar,  tea,  coffee,  spices,  beef-tongues,  and 
many  other  articles  in  the  eating  line  ;  and  also  rolls  of  fine 
flannel,  and  whole  pieces  of  linen,  and  of  lawn,  and  of  cambric, 
and  sundry  other  items  in  the  clothing  way.  And  she  now  went 
down  stairs,  accompanied  by  Marian,  to  overlook  the  unpacking 
of  the  carriage,  and  the  packing  away  of  the  presents. 

Henrietta  spent  the  whole  day  with  Edith,  and  went  away  iu 
'he  evening,  well  pleased  with  her  visit,  and  with  everything 
she  had  found  at  Old  Field  Cottage. 


THE      MAT      BLOSSOM.  151 

Edith  recovered  slowly  but  surely.  Yet  Marian  kept  the 
baby  at  night. 

"  It  is  better  for  you  and  for  the  child,  that  I  should  keep 
her,"  said  the  young  nurse — for  you  are  not  strong,  Edith! 
You  need  unbroken  rest  to  restore  you.  And,  besides,  all 
physicians  agree  that  it  is  better  for  a  young  infant  to  sleep 
with  a  strong,  healthy  person,  like  myself." 

So  the  baby  slept  in  Marian's  bosom,  not  only  then,  but 
always. 

And  as  Edith  lay  in  her  bed  at  night,  between  asleep  and 
awake,  she  would  often  hear  the  young  girl  soothing  the  infant, 
cooing  to  her  like  a  mother-dove  to  her  young — and  would 
wonder  at  the  maternal  tenderness  that  filled  the  maiden's 
heart  for  the  baby.  In  after  years,  in  the  dark  and  tragic 
hours,  Edith  remembered  these  days  and  nights  with  a  soul 
wrung  with  remorse,  to  think  how*  little  at  the  time  she  had 
appreciated  the  lovely  self-devotion  of  the  young  girl. 

When  Edith  was  able  to  go  down  stairs,  a  very  different 
scene  to  what  the  cottage  grounds  usually  presented,  met  her 
\iew.  Marian  had  industriously  occupied  herself  with  the 
adornment  of  the  outside  as  well  as  the  inside  of  the  house. 
She  had  laid  the  little  yard  off  in  borders  and  beds,  and  fer- 
tilized them  well  with  seaweed,  and  stable  compost,  and  kitchen 
slops,  and  in  short,  with  every  refuse  animal  and  vegetable  mat- 
ter, that  would  otherwise  have  littered  the  premises — and  she 
had  planted  flowers  and  sowed  seeds — and  trained  neglected 
vines,  until  the  barren  waste  immediately  around  the  house 
"bloomed  and  blossomed  as  a  rose."  And  every  shutter! ess 
window  was  deeply  shaded  with  flowering  annual  creepers. 
The  kitchen  garden,  a  little  beyond,  was  also  in  a  forward  state 
of  progress.  Everything  about  the  little  home  was  metamor- 
phosed, as  by  an  angel's  hand. 

But,  alas,  the  young  mistress  of  the  house  could  take  no 
pleasure  in  it.  Her  heart  continued  "  exceeding  sorrowful, 
even  unto  death,"  and  "would  not  be  comforted,  because  //« 
was  not." 


152  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

But  Marian  was  not  disheartened. 

"Edith,"  she  said,  reverently,  "too  much,  perhaps,  I  have 
relied  upon  simple  nature  to  heal  your  heart.  Go,  Edith,  to 
the  God  and  Father  of  nature — to  your  Father  and  Creator, 
who  made  your  heart,  and  endowed  it  with  those  great  affec- 
tions so  liable  to  suffer,  who  knows  as  none  else  can  know — 
how  the  wound  lies,  and  how  to  heal  it.  Go,  Edith,  to  your 
Maker.  Seek  Him  earnestly,  seek  Him  constantly,  in  prayer, 
until  He  blesses  you.  Sweep  aside,  as  so  many  flies,  all  doubts 
and  fears,  and  all  conflicting  creeds  and  doctrines  about  Him ! 
And  go,  a  spirit,  to  the  Father  of  Spirits — find  the  comfort 
there  is  in  God,  the  Consoler!  Oh !  Edith,  they  tell  us  of  God 
the  Creator,  God  the  Father;  and  awful,  and  beautiful,  and 
joyous  words  they  are  indeed ;  '  Great  tidings  of  great  joy.' 
But,  oh!  Edith,  none  but  the  wretched,  the  forsaken,  the  be- 
reaved, and  the  stricken  in  heart,  who  seek  Him,  know  the  in 
finite  rest  and  comfort,  '  the  peace  that  passeth  understanding,' 
the  Divine  joy  found  in  GOD  THE  CONSOLER!" 

"  And  is  that  the  secret  of  your  happiness,  Marian  ?" 

"  That  is  the  cause  of  my  happiness,  not  the  secret ;  God's 
glorious  light  is  no  secret  but  to  the  willfully  blind!" 

And  thus  this  household  angel  of  the  Lord  led  the  mourner 
from  the  darkness  of  her  sorrows  into  the  Glorious  Light. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

OUR      FAT. 

"  A  dancing  shape,  an  image  pay, 
To  haunt,  bewilder,  and  waylay." —  Wordsworth. 

"AUXTY,  I  am  going  to  see  Fair  Edith's  baby,"  said  Jacqne- 
a,  following  Mrs.  Waugh  up  and  down,  as  that  g^dl   huH 


OUR      FAY.  153 

went  through  the  old  house,  opening  the  creaking  windows, 
and  airing  the  musty  rooms,  that  breezy  May  morning  "  Do 
you  hear  me,  aunty  ? — I  am  going  to  see  Fair  Edith's  baby." 

'•  But  I  cannot  give  you  leave  to  do  so,  Lapwing ;  your 
ancle's  orders  are  peremptory  upon  that  point." 

"I  didn't  ask  leave,  aunty! — and  as  for  uncle's  orders,  you 
didn't  mind  them  when  you  went !" 

"  Hem — hem-m  I  That  is  a  very  different  thing,  Lapwing, 
of  which  you  are  not  competent  to  judge.  When  the  com- 
mands of  any  human  being  in  authority  clash  with  the  com- 
mands of  God,  we  must  obey  the  Creator  rather  than  the 
creature.  Justice  and  humanity  required  that  I  should  for  once 
disregard  your  uncle's  will,  because  it  was  not  right.  But  re- 
member this,  Jacquelina,  that  if  your  uncle  is  not  always  exactly 
right,  it  is  because  no  human  being  possibly  can  be  perfect — 
and  he  is  not,  upon  that  account,  the  less  entitled  to  your  re- 
spect and  obedience." 

Jacquelina  swallowed  a  rising  yawn,  and  said, 

"Well,  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  'justice  and  humanity,' 
but  something  requires  me  to  go  and  see  Fair  Edith's  baby." 

"  I  can  tell  you  its  name,  Lapwing — it  is  caprice.'1 

"  Well,  anyway,  I  think  I,  too,  shall  disregard  uncle's  wishes, 
because  they  are  not  right,  and  go,  as  you  did,  aunty.  '  What's 
good  for  the  gander  is  good  for  the  goose.'  " 

"  Yes,  but,  Lapwing,  what's  good  for  the  goose  may  be  fatal 
to  the  gosling,  as  disobedience  often  is  to  a  child." 

"Aunty,  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  see  Fair  Edith's  baby,  and 
the  beautifftl  English  girl,  that  everybody  in  the  village  says  is 
as  beautiful  as  all  the  angels  1  Mind  if  I  don't  I  I  don't  care 
what  Ole  Marse  say,  as  Jenny  says." 

"Jenny  is  getting  insolent,  I'm  afraid;  she's  no  example  to 
you.  And  you  must  obey  your  uncle." 

They  had,  by  this  time,  reached  the  door  of  the  room  formerly 
occupied  by  Edith.  Mrs.  Waugh  unlocked  it,  and  entered, 
followed  by  Jacquelina.  The  good  lady  then  hoisted  all  the 
windows,  and  threw  open  all  the  shutters,  and  a  flood  of  light 


154  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

poured  in,  filling  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  room.  The 
place  remained  just  as  Edith  had  left  it  nearly  twelve  months 
before.  Here,  in  addition  to  the  heavy  and  permanent  furni- 
ture appertaining  to  the  bed-chamber,  were  articles  that  should 
have  been  considered  Edith's  own  peculiar  personal  property. 
A  small  book-case,  with  glass  doors,  through  which  you  could 
read  the  titles  of  a  well-selected  set  of  books ;  a  small  writing- 
desk  furnished  ;  a  neat  work-stand ;  a  pretty  work-box  ;  a  low 
sewing-chair  and  foot-cushion;  two  port- folios,  filled  with 
drawings  and  engravings,  upon  the  table ;  small  framed  pic- 
tures on  the  walls ;  and  statuettes  of  saints  and  angels  on  the 
mantel-piece. 

Jacquelina  had  not  entered  this  chamber  since  Edith's  de- 
parture, and  she  looked  around  with  curiosity,  and  then  turning 
to  Mrs.  Waugh  with  surprise,  said, 

"Why,  aunty,  I  thought  uncle  had  gent  all  Fair  Edith's 
things  to  her  the  day  after  she  was  married  ?" 

"  He  sent  her  wardrobe  and  jewelry,  but  these  other  things 
he  considered  belonged  to  the  room,  and  not  to  Edith." 

"But,  didn't  he  buy  them  and  give  them  to  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  ornament  her  room,  not  to  take  away,"  he  says. 

"  Oh,  that  was  so — "  mean,  she  was  going  to  say,  but- Jac- 
quelina sometimes  restrained  herself.  "Aunty,  why  don't  you 
just  have  them  packed  up  and  sent  right  over  to  Old  Field  ?" 

"  Because,  Lapwing,  I  have  no  right  to  do  so.  Your  uncle 
insists  that  they  are  not  Edith's,  and  they  were  not  purchased 
with  my  funds ;  therefore,  Lapwing,  I  have  no  right  to  send 
them,  as  I  had  to  send  the  other  things." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  uncle  to  let  you  send  them  ?" 

"I  did,  Lapwing,  and  he  refused." 

"I'll  go  ask  him  myself!  I  just  will!  I  reckon  he  better 
not  refuse  me !" 

Ai.d  Jacquelina  flew  to  find  the  Commodore.  She  might 
have  been  gone  ten  minutes,  and  Mrs.  Waugh,  having  finished 
her  errand  in  the  room,  was  about  to  leave  it,  and  close  the 
door,  when  Jacquelina  came  flying  back,  her  fair  brow  flushed, 
and  her  blue  eyes  stormy  with  indignation. 


0  U  R      F      Y .  1 55 

""Well,  Lapwing,  did  you  find  your  uncle  and  ask  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"  He  liked  to  bit  my  head  off!  An  ugly  old  snapping  turtle ! 
But  1  HI  pay  him  for  it!" 

Henrietta  did  not  fail  to  reprove  "the  little  vixen"  for  her 
irreverent  threats,  and  then  the  aunt  and  niece  separated  for 
the  time.  Mrs.  Waugh  to  make  her  old  soldier  presentable  in 
company,  and  Jacquelina  to  seek  her  mother  in  her  own  apart- 
ment. 

"  Come  in,  my  child ;  you  must  hurry  now,  and  get  dressed 
for  church !" 

"  For  church  again  this  morning,  Mimmy !  Now  you  don't 
say  that,  after  going  to  church  all  day  yesterday,  you're  going 
all  day  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  we  are  all  going.  Your  uncle  and  aunt  and 
myself  are  going  in  the  carriage.  And  you  are  to  ride  the 
dapple  gray.  Professor  Grunshaw  will  be  here  to  attend  you." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  are  all  going  to  church 
to-day  for!" 

"It  is  a  holiday  of  obligation  my  dear." 

"A  holiday  of  obligation  !  Why  this  is  Monday!  a  working 
day  of  obligation  !  According  to  the  commandment,  there  are 
six  of  them  in  the  week,  and  the  seventh  day  is  the  Sabbath  of 
the  Lord,  and  the  only  holiday  of  obligation  we  read  of!" 

"  Jacquelina !  I  wont  stand  that !  I  really  wont !  I  have 
put  up  with  your  whimsicalities  and  perversities,  but  your  here- 
sies I  will  not  permit !  That  would  be  fatal  indulgence  in- 
deed!" 

<;  Well,  but  Mimmy  !  Do  tell  me,  why  should  the  command- 
ment of  the  Lord  be  set  aside,  and  one  of  His  six  working  days 
of  obligation  be  made  a  holiday  of  obligation  ?" 

"  You  have  no  business  to  ask  questions,  Jacquelina  !  But 
for  your  instruction  I  will  inform  you  that  this  is  the  day  of  the 
Holy  and  blessed  Saint  Bonniface  !" 

"Well,  I  hope  the  bonny-faced  saint  is  bonny  in  his  temper, 


t56  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Coo,  and  wont  take  it  amiss  if,  'stead  of  going  to  church  to  do 
Aim  honor,  I  stay  at  home  to  do  the  Lord  some  service." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  you  little  irreverent.  Oh ! 
holy  saints  !  what  will  ever  become  of  this  child  !  Go  directly 
and  call  Maria,  to  get  you  ready  for  church." 

"But  indeed  I  can't  go,  JVIimmy !  Ton  my  word,  I've  got 
something  very  particular  to  do  for  the  Lord,  at  home!  I  have 
indeed !" 

"  I  do  believe  the  child  has  taken  leave  of  her  senses,"  said 
Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  going  to  the  door,  and  calling, 

"  Maria,  take  Miss  Jacquelina  and  get  her  ready  for  church." 

"Oh!  I  can't  go!  I  can't!  Indeed,  indeed,  indeed,  I 
can't,  Mimniy  !  I  have  got  such  an  awful  ear-ache!" 

"  Ear  ache  !  what  should  have  given  you  an  ear-ache  ?  This 
is  not  the  weather  for  taking  cold  !" 

"No,  but  uncle  bawled  at  me  till  he  made  them  ache.  Oh  ! 
I  know  if  I  go  to  church  I  shall  have  to  be  taken  out  and 
brought  home.  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  how  my  ears  do  ache  !" 

What  is  the  need  to  detail  all  the  imp's  perversity.  She 
conquered,  as  she  was  generally  permitted  to  do.  And  all  the 
family  departed  without  her. 

All  the  house-servants,  except  Maria,  and  all  the  field  labor- 
ers, except  Stupe,  had  also  gone  to  church.  This  last  named 
individual  was  a  sort  of  nondescript  functionary  about  the  pre- 
mises— useful  in  nothing  but  implicit  and  literal  obedience — . 
sometimes  a  dangerous  gift,  as  the  Commodore  had  once 
proved,  when  in  sending  Stupe  with  a  candle  to  the  cellar  one 
night  to  unpack  some  hampers  of  champagne,  he  had  said, 

"  And  now  be  sure  to  set  the  straw  a-fire,  you  black  rascal." 

"When,  half-an-hour  after,  the  boy  returned,  the  master 
asked,  in  some  anxiety, 

"  Did  you  set  anything  on  fire,  you  scoundrel  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  sot  de  straw  a-fire,  as  you  telled  me,  but  de 
cellar  is  so  damp  it  wont  burn  good  !" 

You  may  fancy  the  terror,  confusion  and  trouble,  before  the 
flames  could  be  extinguished.  This  incurable  thick-headeduess 


OUR      FAY.  157 

had  fastened  npon  him  the  sobriquet  of  Stupid  or  Stupe — his 
real  name  was  Festus. 

Jacquelina  relied  upon  Stupe  as  the  tool  of  the  plan  she  had 
in  view  for  the  day.  She  waited  until  she  thought  the  church 
party  had  got  a  mile  or  two  away,  and  then  she  went  out  of 
the  front  door  to  look  for  him.  She  found  him  in  the  front 
yard  trimming  the  grass. 

"  Hi,  Festus !  what  are  you  doing  there  when  you  ought  to 
be  getting  up  the  cart  ?" 

"  The  cart,  Miss  ?"  repeated  Stupe,  staring  with  all  his  eyes. 

"  Certainly,  the  cart.  Of  course,  the  cart !  What  are  you 
thinking  of?  I  lay  anything  you  had  better  let  your  old 
Marse  come  back  and  find  you  havn't  got  the  cart  up  1" 

"  I  wasn't  'tending  nothing  else,  miss.  I  wasn't  thinking 
"bout  getting  no  cart  up  !" 

"  Pshaw  !  you  blockhead,  I  mean  you  better  not  let  him  come 
and  find  you  havn't  got  it  up." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  miss  !     What  is  I  got  to  do  ?" 

"  Catch  a  strong  horse,  and  hitch  him  to  the  single  horse 
cart,  and  bring  it  up  to  the  door,  now,  directly  1  Make  haste, 
now  !" 

"  Yes,  miss,"  and  Stupe  ran  off  to  do  her  bidding,  w-liile 
Jacquelina  entered  .the  house  to  equip  herself  for  a  ride. 

Maria  was  mending  her  own  clothes  in  her  mistress's  room. 
Jacquelina  called  to  her — 

"  Maria,  you  have  just  got  to  come  down  here,  and  help  me 
to  pack  up  these  things.  Uncle — I  mean  aunty,  is  going  to  send 
to  Fair  Edith — I  mean  Mrs.  Shields." 

"What  things,  Miss  Lina?"  asked  the  maid,  leaning  over 
the  balustrades. 

"  These  things  in  her  old  room,  you  stupid  thing,  you  ' 
Didn't  you  see  aunty  take  me  in  the  room  this  morning,  and 
point  them  out  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  miss,  I  saw  you  and  mist'ess  go  in  there." 

"Well,  then,  come  along,  and  help  me  to  pack  the  things 
»he  wants  to  send  to  Old  Fields." 
10 


158  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

The  maid  came  down  without  the  slightest  demur  or  doubt, 
so  much  was  she  carried  away  by  the  assured  manner  of  her 
little  mistress. 

By  the  time  they  had  wrapped  up  all  the  statuettes  and  vases, 
and  had  taken  down  all  the  pictures,  and  packed  up  all  the 
books  in  a  large  trunk,  they  heard  the  sound  of  the  horse-cart 
drawing  up  before  the  door.  Then  Jacquelina  went  out,  and 
called  Stupe  in  to  help  to  lift  all  the  furniture  out.  The  book- 
case and  the  writing-desk,  the  work-stand  and  the  work-box, 
the  sewing-chair  and  the  foot-stool,  the  box  of  pictures,  the 
box  of  statuettes,  and  the  trunk  of  books,  were  all  taken  in  turn, 
and  carefully  packed  into  the  cart.  It  was  a  light  load  for  a 
strong  horse,  and  when  all  was  put  in,  Jacqnelina  locked  the 
room  door,  hung  up  the  key,  and  told  Stupe  to  help  her  up 
into  the  cart,  as  she  was  to  go  with  the  things.  Here,  for  the 
first  time,  Maria  made  some  objection. 

"You  musn't  go,  indeed,  Miss  Lina !  You  know  you've 
cotched  cold  a'ready,  and  has  got  sich  a  berry  bad  ear-ache  !" 

"  My  ear-ache  is  well !  And  I'd  like  to  see  who'll  stop  me  !" 
said  Sans  Souci,  leaping,  with  Stupe's  assistance,  up  into  the 
cart. 

Stupe  walked  by  the  side  of  the  horse,  cracked  his  whip,  and 
the  cart  started,  leaving  poor  Maria  behind,  in  doubt  and  un- 
easiness, not  at  all  upon  account  of  the  furniture  and  the  books 
— but  on  account  of  Jacquelina's  whim  of  accompanying  them. 

The  cart  proceeded  on  its  way  tolerably  well,  until  they  got 
into  the  bad  road  leading  through  the  forest.  Now,  poor 
Stupe  was  a  miserable  driver,  and  there  is  no  knowing  how 
soon  their  necks  might  have  been  broken,  had  they  not  chanced 
to  meet  Cloudesley  Mornington,  on  his  way  to  the  hall. 

"  Oh  !  Cloudy!  Cloudy  Morning!  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  1 
I  just  want  you  to  help  me  in  a  splendid  piece  of — of — " 

"Mischief?" 

"  No  1"  said  Sans  Souci,  indignantly.  "  You  always  think — 
mischief.  No — a  piece  of  good  work,  sir." 

"You  had  better  let  me  get  up  there  in  Stupe's  place  and 
drive — he'll  smash  the  cart,  and  endanger  your  life,  yet." 


OUR      FAY.  159 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  you  to  do,  Cloudy  1" 

"  What  ?     Smash  the  cart  and  throw  yon  out  ?' 

"  No,  you  know  it  isn't !  I  want  you  to  get  up  and  drive, 
But — were  you  going  to  the  hall  ?" 

"Yes!" 

"  Well,  then,  you  can  just  let  Stupe  take  your  horse,  and 
lead  him  to  the  house,  while  you  drive  on  to  Old  Fields." 

"  Is  it  there  you're  going  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Whew!" 

"  Now,  what  did  you  say  '  whew '  for  ?  Never  mind,  get  in, 
and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  as  we  go  along." 

Cloudeslcy  threw  the  bridle  to  the  boy,  and  sprang  upon  the 
seat  near  Jacquelina,  and  drove  on. 

When  Stupe  was  left  far  behind,  Sans  Souci  explained  to 
Cloudesley  the  business  that  she  was  upon.  "  Cloudy"  looked 
very  grave  for  awhile,  and — 

" Lina,"  he  said,  "this  looks  to  me,  very  much  like — not  ex- 
actly shop-lifting,  but  /iowse-lifting,  if  one  might  call  it  so  !" 

"  It's  no  such  thing,  now,  Cloudy !  There !  Aunty  and  every- 
body think  Edith  ought  to  have  them,  because  they  know  undo 
did  give  her  the  things,  though  now  he  wants  to  withhold  them 
out  of — curiousness !  But  never  mind,  Mr.  Cloudy !  If  you 
don't  want  to  go  with  me — if  yon  are  afraid,  you  may  just  get 
down,  and  go  back,  and  I'll  call  Stupe — he's  not  afraid,  poor 
slave  boy  as  he  is !" 

"  Pooh !  It  was  not  myself,  but  you  I  was  thinking  of!  You  ! 
to  dare  your  uncle's  anger  so  1" 

"Yes!  I  know  he  will  be— oh!  he'll  he  awful!  But  I  donY. 
care!  not  I!  Because,  you  know  he  daren't  send  and  take  the 
pretty  things  away  from  Fair  Edith  again — that  would  be  too 
shameful,  and  he  knows  it.  So  Fair  Edith  gets  her  things,  I 
don't  care  how  much  he  storms  at  me !  But  mind,  Cloudesley  ! 
don't  you  let  on  how  nncle  didn't  send  them.  Fair  Edith  will 
think  that  either  he  or  aunty  sent  them,  of  course,  and  you  just 
let  her  think  so.  And  if  she  asks  any  questions  leave  the  talk- 
ing to  me." 


160  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Oh  I  of  course  you'd  take  the  floor,  whether  it  were  given  yon 
or  not." 

By  this  time  they  had  got  out  of  the  forest,  and  into  the  open 
country  and  good  roads. 

"  Now  make  Samson  travel !  You  know  he'll  have  a  good 
time  to  rest  at  Old  Fields,  and  no  load  to  bring  back." 

"Except  a  load  of  sin!"  said  Cloudesley,  as  he  put  whip  to 
the  powerful  draught  horse,  and  they  moved  rapidly  on. 

They  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  sea-shore,  and  soon  after  came 
upon  the  little  cottage,  now  half  concealed  in  climbing  and 
clustering  vines,  azure  morning  glories,  rose-colored  and  purple ; 
flowering  peas,  and  scarlet  running  beans,  climbed  up  and  shaded 
all  the  windows,  and  overran  the  little  lattice  work  over  the 
door.  In  the  yard  before  the  cottage  were  blooming  damask 
roses,  and  white  lilies,  golden  head  daffodils  and  jonquils,  blue 
hyacinths,  variegated  tulips,  and  other  swee4.  spring  flowers. 

In  the  door,  canopied  more  royally  than  a  queen  by  the  over- 
arching vines,  stood  Marian,  with  her  white  dress  and  ainber- 
hued  tresses  fluttering  in  the  breeze. 

"  Oh  !  My  !  how  pretty  !  Did  you — did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing near  so  pretty  ?" 

"Which  do  you  mean,  the  cottage  or  the  young  lady ?" 

"  Oh  1  all  together !— both  ! — the  picture.  Oh  !  My  !  how 
sweet !"  exclaimed  Jacquelina,  as  they  pulled  up  before  the  gate. 

Marian,  from  her  position,  had  recognized  the  blue  cart,  and 
Samson,  the  draught  horse,  from  Luckenough,  which  had  been 
at  the  cottage  twice  before  to  bring  things  sent  by  Mrs.  Waugh 
to  Edith.  And  now  it  was  with  more  pleasure  than  surprise  that 
she  saw  it  once  more  stand  well  laden  before  the  gate.  She  could 
not,  however,  recognize  either  of  the  young  people,  whom  she 
had  never  seen  before.  Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  the  cart 
stopped,  she  came  down  the  walk  smiling,  and  holding  out  her 
hand  to  the  little  girl  that  jumped  off  the  cart  and  jerked  open 
the  gate,  and  rushed  into  the  yard,  exclaiming  eagerly, 

"  Where's  the  baby  ?" 

"Who  are  you,  my  clear  ?"  inquired  Marian,  catching  her 
hand  to  restrain  her,  yet  smiling  kindly  on  her  all  the  time. 


OUR      FAY.  161 

"  Oh  !  You  know !  Jacquelina !  Uncle's  niece  !  There's  the 
cart  with  some  things  for  Edith.  Aunty's  gone  to  church. 
Oh!  for  goodness  sake  let  me  hurry  in  and  see  the  baby." 

"  Stay,  my  dear,  here  comes  the  young  gentleman — we  must 
stop  for  him." 

"  Oh  !  that's  only  Cloudy  Morning.  Cloudy  !  Cloudy  Morn- 
ing !  why  don't  you  come  along  ?  What  makes  you  so  bashful  ? 
I  declare  if  you  ain't  a-blushing  like  a  hollyhock  !" 

And,  in  truth,  Cloudesley  was  blushing,  and  had  been  hold- 
ing back  a  little,  awed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  by  the  beauty 
of  a  young  girl. 

"  She  is  not  merely  pretty — she  is  beautiful,  as  beautiful  as — 
as — Oh,  Heavens  I  what  a  charming,  delightful  face!"  exclaimed 
Cloudesley  to  himself,  as  he  shook  off  his  strange  timidity,  and 
met  the  young  lady  who  was  advancing  to  welcome  him. 

Then  Marian  invited  them  into  the  house. 

Edith,  fully  recovered,  sat  in  her  rocking-chair  with  the  infant 
in  her  lap.  Sans  Souci  was  about  to  fly  to  her,  and,  perhaps, 
seize  the  child — the  prize  ! — the  wonder !  But  the  fair  and  fragile 
appearance  of  the  young  mother  subdued  her  impetuosity,  and 
she  came  softly  to  Edith's  side  and  knelt  down,  and  looked  at  the 
baby  some  time,  lightly  kissing  its  forehead  several  times,  and 
saying, 

"  Oh  !  Fair  Edith,  I  do  love  your  little  baby  so  much  !  May 
Cloudy  come  and  see  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Edith. 

"  Oh  !  Cloudy,  do  come  and  see  the  wonderfullest  little  beauty 
you  ever  saw  in  your  life !" 

And  Cloudesley  came,  and  took  and  pressed  the  hand  that 
Edith  held  out  to  him,  and  then  to  conceal  the  tears  that  came 
rushing  to  his  eyes,  he  stooped  and  tenderly  lifted  the  infant 
from  her  lap  and  carried  it  off  to  the  window.  Jacquelina  fol- 
lowing him  with, 

"  Isn't  it  a  beauty  ?     Oh  !  Cloudy,  isn't  it  a  beauty  ?" 

Cloudesley  choked  down  his  emotion,  falteringly  admired  the 
baby,  made  believe  to  joke  and  pinch  its  cheek  "  to  see  if  such  a 


162  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

queer  little  thing  would  cry,"  and  then  as  soon  as  he  had  gathered 
self-command,  he  went  back  and  laid  the  child  on  the  mother's 
lap.  Happily  also/  old  Jenny  entered  the  room  just  then,  and 
had  to  make  her  joyful  greetings.  And  then  Cloudesley,  assisted 
by  Jenny,  went  out  to  unload  the  cart.  The  things  were  brought 
in,  and  Marian,  aided  by  Cloudesley,  unpacked  and  arranged 
them.  Meanwhile,  Samson  was  unharnessed,  watered,  fed,  and 
turned  out  to  grass  until  the  afternoon. 

Then  Jenny  kindled  the  fire  and  put  on  the  tea-kettle  for  a 
coffee  dinner — to  please  poor  Edith  there  was  always  a  tea  or 
coffee  dinner  at  the  cottage,  as  there  is  in  many  other  houses 
where  the  family  consists  wholly  of  women  and  girls.  There 
were,  besides,  nice  light  bread  and  fresh  butter,  a  broiled  chicken, 
cold  beef  tongue,  and  peach  preserves  with  cream.  Jacquelina 
and  Cloudesley  heartily  enjoyed  seeing  the  meal  prepared  under 
their  own  eyes  on  the  neat  village  hearth,  and  Jacquelina  assisted 
Marian  to  set  out  the  little  round  table,  and  spread  upon  it  the 
snowy  cloth,  and  place  on  that  the  semi-transparent  white  ser- 
vice, that  she  declared  "looked  like  refined  moonlight."  And 
as  for  Cloudesley,  no  alderman  ever  enjoyed  his  venison  and 
turtle  soup,  eaten  with  a  golden  spoon,  more  than  he  did  the 
coffee ;  truth  to  tell,  Cloudy  was  remarkable  for  his  devotion  to 
the  Arabian  berry.  And  in  the  cottage  everything  was  so  snug, 
so  cool,  and  so  pleasant,  that  beautiful  spring  day,  and  the 
bright  little  fire  on  the  hearth  was  not  inharmonious  with  the 
open  doors  and  the  fluttering  white  muslin  curtains  and  overhan  '• 
ing  vines,  through  the  partings  of  which  could  be  seen  on  one  side 
of  the  house  a  view  of  the  sea,  and  on  the  other  the  flower  yard 
and  fields  and  forest.  The  meal  was  so  impromptu,  so  easy, 
and  the  party  that  gathered  around  the  table  so  youthful,  so 
keenly  alive  to  pleasure  in  every  form,  even  Edith's  pale  cheek 
brightened  into  smiles. 

Soon  after  dinner,  Cloudy  went  to  speak  to  Sans  Souci.  who 
sat  by  the  baby's  cradle. 

"  Liiia,  had  I  not  better  harness  the  horse  to  the  cart,  and 
get  ready  to  start  home  ?" 


OUR      FAY.  163 

"  No !" 

"  But  it  is  getting  late  " 

"  Xo\v,  Cloudy  Morning,  don't  you  fret  yourself  into  a  fidget ! 
I  am  going  to  stay  till  sundown,  and  go  home  by  moonlight." 

"  But,  my  dear  Lina,  what  will  your  uncle  say  to  you  ?" 

"  Why,  he'll  storm  at  me,  dreadfully,  and  that  he'll  do  any- 
how? It's  as  well  to  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb  I  yes, 
and  letter,  I  think.  I  like  to  have  the  worth  of  a  scolding,  if  I 
am  to  get  the  scolding.  I  know  there'll  be  a  tremendous 
storming  up  at  home,  but  I  intend  to  earn  it,  every  bit  of  it ; 
and  then  it  will  be  such  a  satisfaction  to  know  I  deserved  it, 
and  that  it  was  all  right  1" 

As  the  imp  said  this,  her  malicious  blue  eyes,  blazing  with 
mischief  and  defiance,  met  those  of  Marian  fixed  upon  her — 
fixed  most  intensely  upon  her — and  most  strange  was  the  effect 
of  that  mutually  encountering  gaze  upon  the  beautiful  English 
girl.  While  yet  unable  to  withdraw  her  fascinated  eyes,  her 
cheeks  were  overspread  with  a  paleness,  and  sweeping  her  hand 
across  her  brow,  as  though  to  dispel  some  baleful  vision,  she 
sunk  into  a  chair.  So  sudden  was  her  pallor  and  her  sinking, 
that  Edith  and  Cloudesley  sprang  to  her  side. 

"  You  are  sick — you  are  sick,  dear  Marian,  what  is  it?  will 
you  lie  down  ?"  asked  trie  former,  while  the  latter  brought  a 
glass  of  water. 

"  Thank  you,  how  very  strange  and  foolish,"  said  the  young 
girl,  taking  the  glass  and  drinking  the  water,  and  then  again 
passing  her  hand  back  and  forth  across  her  brow,  as  if  to  clear 
away  a  cloud. 

"  What  was  it,  dearest  Marian,  that  made  you  ill !" 

"  I  really  do  not  know  ;  I  cannot  account  for  it  at  all — a 
sudden  panic  seized  me  and  I  fell — it  is  passing  away  now — in 
1'uct  il  is  past;"  smiling  and  blushing  at  the  unaccountable 
emotion;  "now,  indeed,  it  is  quite  gone,"  she  added,  still  more 
brightly  smiling  in  Edith's  anxious  face,  and  rising  and  lightly 
fchaking  off  all  the  clouds  from  her  sunny  presence ! 

Sans  Souci  stood  by  the  window  in  the  attitude  and  with  the 
expression  of  deep  thought. 


164  THE      MISSING      BRIDE 

"  Cloudy,"  she  said,  as  the  youth  approached  her  ;  "look  at 
me — have  I  got  the  evil  eye  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  to1  be  sure  you  have !  Didn't  you  know  it 
before  ?" 

"  Now,  Cloudy,  you  just  be  serious,  have  I  got  the  evil  eye  ?'• 
asked  the  imp,  in  a  low,  fearful  whisper. 

"  Why,  no,  you  little  goose ;  what  makes  you  ask  such  a 
simple  question  ?" 

"Why,  because,  just  now  when  I  was  laughing  and  thinking 
of  how  I  would  do  uncle,  I  happened  to  look  up  in  Marian's 
face,  and  the  instant  she  caught  my  eyes  she  turned  pale  and 
sank  down,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  killed  her." 

"Pooh  !  your  looking  at  her  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Cloudy;  "and  now  I  tell  you,  Lina,  we  had  better  set  out 
home,  or  we'll  not  get  there  by  nine  o'clock !" 

"And  I  don't  care  if  we  don't  get  there  till  twelve !  'In  for 
a  penny,  in  for  a  pound,'  as  Solomon  Weismann  says ;  and  be- 
sides, I've  got  ever  so  many  things  to  see  first,  that  Marian 
promised  to  show  me." 

And  so  the  Jay  had !  First  of  all,  she  must  go  up  stairs 
with  Marian  and  see  the -pretty  new  chamber  furniture,  and  all 
the  baby's  pretty  little  clothes,  that  were  laid  away  so  nicely  iu 
an  upper  bureau  drawer.  And  then  she  must  see  the  wren's 
nest  in  the  gourd  out  at  the  chamber  window,  and  hear  about  its 
waking  the  family  up  with  its  singing  early  in  the  morning. 
And  next,  she  had  to  visit  the  tortoiseshell  cat  and  her  two 
kittens ;  and,  lastly,  she  had  to  go  down  to  the  shed  and  see 
Lily,  the  handsome  white  Durham  heifer,  fed.  And  during  all 
this  time,  the  elf  was  so  interested  in  the  sweet  life  around  her, 
and  so  modified  by  its  subduing  influences,  that  when  at  hist 
she  came  in,  holding  Marian's  hand,  she  looked  gentle  and  mild 
enough  to  have  been  Marian's  little  sister.  Jenny  had  tea  on 
the  table,  and  Cloudesley  had  Samson  harnessed  to  the  cart. 
So,  after  tea,  the  young  visitors  took  leave  of  Edith  and  Marian, 
ati  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  sleeping  baby,  and  departed. 

Marian  had  put  a  beautiful  posey  in  the  hands  of  Jacquelina, 


OUR      FAY.  165 

tolling  her  that  the  next  time  she  went  to  Benedict,  she  would 
buy  a  little  rocking  chair,  so  that  her  little  visitor  should  have 
a  comfortable  seat  when  she  came  again. 

"  And  I  can  rock  the  baby  ?» 

"  Yes!"  said  Marian,  kissing  her  with  her  smiling,  rosy  lips. 

And  then  the  cart  drove  off.  Jenny  walked  by  its  side 
some  distance  to  the  first  road  gate,  sending  endless  messages 
of  respect  and  love  and  remembrance  to  every  member  of  the 
household  of  Luckenough,  from  her  master  ("  poor  ole  forsook 
benighted  sinner,"  as  she  called  him,)  and  her  mistress,  down 
to  Stupe,  the  yard-sweeper. 

Meantime  Marian  had  returned  to  the  house,  smiling,  roseate, 
cheery  as  usual ;  and  making  some  pleasant  remark  about  the 
departing  visitors,  she  took  her  sewing  and  sat  by  the  sea-view 
window  to  work.  But  Edith  drew  up  to  her  side. 

"  Marian,  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  dear,  what  it  really  was  that 
agitated  you  so  ?" 

Marian  laughed.  "  I  accept  all  experiences  in  physiological 
phenomena,  Edith,  even  that,  strange  and  unaccountable  as  it 
was  ?  You  will  smile  ;  but  as  I  happened  to  meet  that  child's 
blue  eyes,  blazing  with  an  insufferable  light,  while  her  whole 
form  dilated  as  instinct  with  mischief  and  charged  with  de- 
struction, I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  some  fell  spirit,  apart 
from  the  child,  seemed  yet  to  gaze  at  me  and  threaten  me 
through  her  eyes  ;  and  a  sudden  panic  seized  me,  and  I  sank 
with  the  strangest  impression,  with  the  feeling  of  a  strong  man's 
arm  catching  me  in  a  vice-like  grip,  and  a  sharp  knife  plunged 
into  my  chest — "  Marian  shuddered  in  spite  of  herself.  "It 
may  be  something — it  may  be  a  presentiment  or  a  vision — or  it 
may  be  nothing  more  than  the  effect  of  disordered  nerves  ;  per- 
haps we  drink  too  much  coffee ;  and  yet  I  am  perfectly  well ' 
Bu.  the  affair  is  not  worth  so  many  words,  dear  Edith,  and  now 
that  I  have  satisfied  your  curiosity,  I  will-  not  give  the  subject 
another  thought."  And  Marian  resumed  her  needle-work,  her 
fingers  flying  with  accelerated  speed  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 

Marian  had  sometime  previous   got  through  all  the  little 


100  THE       MISSING       BRIDE. 

household  sewing,  and  now  she  employed  herself  in  working 
collars  and  caps,  which  she  left  at  the  village  shops  to  be  sold, 
and  in  the  scarcity  of  such  articles  there,  they  commanded  a, 
ready  sale.  And  now  as  Marian  worked,  she  sang  a  favorite 
song. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

SANS      SOUCI'S       FIRST      GRIEF. 
"  Jamie's  on  the  stormy  sea." — Few  Sony. 

MEANWHILE,  Cloudesley  and  Jacqnelina  rode  on  through 
the  woods. 

"  Oh !  I  do  love  yon  better  than  anybody  in  the  world, 
Cloudy!"  exclaimed  the  child,  throwing  her  arms  around  the 
young  man's  neck  with  one  of  her  impetuous  hugs  and  kisses. 
"  I  do  love  you  more  than  anybody  in  the  world !" 

"  So  do  I  you,  Lina!  Only  I  know  you  wont  let  me  tell 
you  so  a  few  years  from  this,  when  you  get  to  be  a  young 
lady." 

"  Wont  I  though,  Cloudy !  I  should  like  to  see  myself  not 
letting  you.  Cloudy  ?" 

"  Well,  Humming-bird  ?'• 

"  I  do  believe  you'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  me." 

"  I  believe  so  too,  Lina." 

"  Even  if  it  was  naughty  ?" 

"  I  fear  so,  Lina — at  least,  if  I  couldn't  prevent  your  run- 
ning yourself  into  trouble  and  danger,  I  should  have  to  go 
shares  with  you." 

"Well,  now,  Cloudy!  this  is  what  I  want  you  to  do,  just 
as  soon  as  ever  we  get  home — you  take  your  horse  and  go 
back  to  Benedict  quietly,  without  coming  into  the  house,  or 
saying  a  \\ord  to  anybody.'' 


SANS      SOUCl'S      FIRST      GRIEF.  167 

"  And  why  should  I  do  that?" 

'  Xever  inind  !  because  I  ask  you !" 

''  Now,  Lina!  I  know  what  you  are  up  to!  You  want  me 
to  sneak  back  to  the  village,  and  leave  you  to  bear  all  the 
brunt  of  the  Commodore's  wrath!  Now,  Lina,  what  would 
you  think  of  me,  or  what  should  I  think  of  myself  to  do  such  a 
mean,  miserable  act?" 

"  I  know  you  couldn't  do  anything  mean,  Cloudy !  But,  oh  1 
indeed,  indeed  I  do  wish  you  would  go  quietly  back,  as  I  say ; 
for,  see  here,  Cloudy!  I  don't  mind  uncle's  storming  at  me  one 
bit!  Indeed,  indeed  don't  I !  I  enjoy  it!  that  I  do!  just  as  I 
should  a  magnificent  thunder  storm,  such  as  scares  everybody 
else  to  death!  Bat  I  caii't  bear  to  see  him  rage  at  you!  and  to 
see  you  stand  there  with  your  lips  compressed  so  bitterly,  and 
your  eyes  flashing  under  their  lids  like  a  smothered  fire !  No  ! 
I  can't  bear  that !" 

"  Aud  do  you  think,  Lina,  that  my  heart  rises  and  burns  so 
upon  my  own  account — no,  Lina, — no,  but  upon  yours!" 

"  And  that  is  true,  I  know.  For,  whenever  uncle  blows  you 
up,  it  is  because  of  me.  We  get  into  all  our  troubles  together, 
don't  we,  Cloudy?  Or,  at  least,  /draw  you  into  all  my  trou- 
bles! Yes,  indeed  !  I've  just  thought  of  it!  I'm  always  get- 
ting you  into  scrapes!  But  I  won't  do  so  any  more!  indeed  I 
won't,  you  dear,  good  Cloudy !" 

"  Never  mind,  Lina!  It  has  been  man's  doom  ever  since 
Eve  got  Adam  into  that  precious  scrape  of  robbing  the  apple 
tree !"  said  Cloudesley,  laughing  good-humoredly,  as  he  put 
whip  to  the  horse. 

They  were  just  entering  the  precincts  of  Luckenough.  It 
was  after  ten  o'clock,  and  as  they  entered  the  lawn,  the  arrival 
of  a  cart  at  such  an  unprecedented  hour,  set  all  the  dogs  upon 
the  premises  to  barking.  And  Cloudy  had  to  use  his  lungs, 
and  his  whip,  too,  to  conquer  a  peace,  before  they  would 
recognize  him. 

When  they  drove  up  to  the  door,  they  found  r.he  front  of  tho 
house  all  shut  up  and  darkened. 


168  THE      MISSING      UK  IDE. 

Cloudy  alighted,  helped  Jacquelina  down  from  her  scat,  and 
'then  they  Doth  went  up  the  steps  to  knock  at  the  door,  half 
expecting  to  be  refused  admittance.  But  just  as  Cloudy  seized 
the  knocker,  the  door  was  cautiously  opened,  and  Mrs.  Waugh 
drew  him  in,  making  a  sign  of  silence.  Then  she  beckoned 
Sans  Souci,  who  entered,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  in  a  sort 
of  awe.  And  lastly,  she  let  her  fellow  watcher,  old  Oliver,  out, 
to  put  the  horse  and  cart  away.  Then  she  led  the  way  into  a 
back  parlor,  and  struck  a  light,  and  turning  to  Jacquelina, 
said, 

"Oh!  my  dear  child!  what  have  you  done!  Your  uncle 
will  never  forgive  you!  He  Is  frightfully  angry!" 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  that,  aunty!     I  knew  it  all  along!" 

"  But,  oh!  my  dear,  you  don't  know  the  extent  of  his  rage 
this  time  !  Why,  Lapwing,  he  drove  every  servant  to  bed  be- 
fore he  went  himself,  and  he  swore  that  no  one  of  them  should 
admit  you  to-night!  Think  of  it,  my  dear!  The  Lord  knows 
what  he  will  do  to-morrow!" 

"  Aunty,  just  tell  me!  will  he  send  and  take  Fair  Edith's 
pretty  things  away  again  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  he  wont  do  that,  because  that  would  make 
'  a  town-talk  all  over  the  country,'  as  he  calls  it.  But  I  do 
fear  he  will  punish  you  very  severely  to-morrow !" 

"  Never  mind!  All  right!  He  daren't  kill  me,  nor  break 
my  bones,  and  for  anything  short  of  that — I've  earned  it, 
thanks  be  to  goodness!  And  so  he  don't  take  Fair  Edith's 
things  away  again,  I'm  satisfied!  Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la !  sang 
Sans  Souci,  making  a  whirl. 

"  Hush  !  you  little  wretch  you  !  is  that  the  way -you  meet  it? 
You  had  better  waken  your  uncle  up,  that  is  all !  I  was  very 
much  afraid  the  barking  of  the  dogs  would  wake  him,  but  it 
didn't!" 

Then  Mrs.  Waugh  asked  after  Edith,  and  the  baby,  and 
Marian.  And  when  she  had  received  satisfactory  answers,  she 
lighted  a  second  caudle,  and  put  it  in  the  hands  of  Cloudeslcy, 
saying, 


SANS      SOUCl'S      FIRST      GRIEF.  169 

"There,  young  man,  you  know  your  room — go>  to  it,  while  I 
take  this  child  to  her  mother.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  Cloudy !"  said  Sans  Souci,  running,  and 
holding  up  her  face  for  a  kiss. 

"  Good  night,  Fire-fly,"  said  Cloudesley,  lifting  her  up  and 
kissing  her,  and  putting  her  down  again. 

And  Mrs.  Waugh  led  her  away. 

I  shall  pass  over  the  domestic  tornado  that  swept  through 
Luckenough  the  next  morning.  We  have  seen  sufficient  of 
Commodore  Waugh's  edifying  method  of  family  discipline  to 
understand  exactly  how  it  was.  The  result  was  this  :  that  Sans 
Souci  was  sentenced  to  a  month's  imprisonment  in  her  chamber 
— which  was  first — when  Old  Nick  cooled  down  a  little,  com- 
muted to  a  week's,  and  next,  when  uncle  began  to  be  ennuyee 
for  the  company  of  his  little  Jacko,  to  a  day's  confinement 
As  for  Cloudesley,  who  had  come  in  for  his  full  share  of  abuse, 
it  was  decided  that  he  should  be  sent  to  sea  immediately — nor 
was  there  any  commutation  of  this  sentence !  For  the  affection 
growing  up  between  the  little  girl  often,  and  the  youth  of  six- 
teen, was  already  beginning  to  give  the  Commodore  uneasi- 
ness, as  likely  at  some  future  time  to  interfere  with  his  plans 
in  favor  of  "Grim." 

"Who  knows  when  the  nonsense  called  love  germinates.  1'nv 
sure  I  can't  remember  when — I- — no,  when  Henrietta  took  pos- 
session of  me,  soul,  body,  and  estate  !" 

Commodore  Waugh,  by  reason  of  his  great  services  in  the 
Revolution,  as  well  as  his  late  rank  in  the  Xavy,  and  his  ex- 
tensive political  connexion,  had  ample  influence  to  procure  for 
his  ward  a  midshipman's  warrant,  and  to  get  him  appointed  to 
a  good  ship. 

And  the  old  sailor  made  a  journey  to  Washington  City  for 
the  purpose.  And  since  he  went  upon  a  benevolent  errand,  it 
would  be  invidious  to  relate  how  much  peace  befell  Luck- 
enough  during  nis  absence !  He  came  back  at  last,  bearing 
the  warrant  that  metamorphosed  Cloudy  into  a  naval  officer. 

Cloudesley  was  then  dispatched  to  Baltimore  to  procure  him- 


170  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

self  an  outfit.  And  after  an  absence  of  two  weeks,  he  r> 
turned  to  Luckenough,  to  wait  orders.  He  soon  received  them 
to  join  the  ship  "  Susquehanna"  upon  or  before  a  stated  day. 

The  intervening  time  was  spent  by  Cloudesley  at  Luckenough, 
where  Mrs.  Waugh,  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  the  maid  Maria,  and  even 
Jacquclina,  all  devoted  themselves  to  his  service,  until  his  linen 
was  made  up,  and  his  wardrobe  in  perfect  order  for  a  three 
years'  voyage.  As  for  Sans  Souci,  to  the  surprise  of  every- 
body, she  seemed  perfectly  delighted  with  the  idea  of  Cloudesley's 
going  to  sea  as  a  midshipman.  She  entered  into  the  spirit  of 
the  thing  with  all  her  heart  and  soul !  And  after  having  assisted 
to  get  his  wardrobe  in  order,  she  helped  to  pack  his  sea- 
chest.  Cloudy,  on  his  part,  promising  to  bring  her  any  num- 
ber of  parrots,  monkeys,  and  other  animal  and  vegetable  and 
mineral  curiosities  from  foreign  parts. 

"Poor  Lapwing  1  she  never  parted  with  any  one  she  loved, 
for  any  length  of  time,  in  all  her  life,  and  she  doesn't  know 
what  it  is  when  it  comes  1"  said  good  Henrietta,  noticing  the 
child's  high  spirits. 

Jacquelina  excessively  admired  Cloudesley's  new  uniform,  and 
nothing  would  do  but  he  must  put  on  the  full,  parade  dress, 
that  she  might  admire  him  in  it.  So,  to  gratify  her,  and  to 
please  himself,  too,  maybe,  as  well  as  to  "astonish the  natives" 
of  Luckenough  generally,  perhaps,  Cloudy  donned  his  hand- 
somest uniform.  Sans  Souci  was  delighted,  enraptured,  en- 
thusiastic. 

"Cloudy?" 

"Well,  Lina?" 

"  I  want  you  to  save  that  suit  of  uniform  for  me  !" 

"  Now,  Lina !" 

"  Yes,  1  do  I  I  want  you,  when  you've  worn  it  out,  or  out- 
grown it,  to  put  it  away  and  save  it  for  me — I  want  to  keep  it, 
because  it  is  the  first  uniform  you  ever  wore  I  Now,  will  you 
do  it  ?  Will  you  promise  me  ?  Will  you  bring  it  back  to  mo 
when  you  come?  If  you  will,  I  will  keep  it,  and  show  it  to 
you  when  you  are  an  old  gray-haired  post-captain  1" 


SANS      SOUCl'S      FIRST      GRIEF.  171 

"Yes,  Lina,  I  will  save  this  uniform,  and  bring  it  back  to 
you  when  I  come,"  said  Cloudesley,  and  he  inwardly  resolved 
to  wear  it  but  a  few  times,  and  then  supply  its  place  with  a  new- 
suit,  and  put  it  away  to  keep  untarnished  for  Jacquelina. 

Sans  Souci  was  half  delirious  with  delight  and  admiration, 
seized  both  his  hands,  and  holding  them,  danced  up  and  down 
before  him — her  eyes  dancing  more  than  her  feet.  Suddenly 
her  manner  changed — her  bright  face  was  overshadowed — 

"  You  are  'most  a  man  now,  Mr.  Cloudy,"  she  said. 

"  Well !  what  of  that,  Lina  ?» 

"  /'•/»  only  a  little  girl." 

"And  what  of  that?" 

"You'll  go  and  fall  in  love  with  a  grown  lady." 

I  shall  do  no  such  thing,  Lina.  What  put  such  a  notion  in 
your  head  ?" 

"  Doctor  Solomon  said  so !" 

"  Solomon's  a  fool!" 

"Yes,  I  know!  but  fools  speak  truth,  they  say." 

"  Not  in  this  instance,  Lina." 

"  No  ?     And  you  wont  fall  in  love  with  a  grown  lady  ?" 

"No,  surely  not." 

"  Not  if  they're  ever  so  pretty,  and  ever  so  rich,  and  want 
you  to,  ever  so  much  ?" 

"No,  no,  no,  and  a  thousand  times  no,  Lina!" 

"And  you  wont  ever  marry  anybody  but  me — will  you, 
Claudy  ?" 

"  No,  Lina,  I  pledge  my  word  I  will  never  marry  anybody 
but  yon." 

"  God  bless  your  dear,  sweet,  darling  heart  of  you,  I  do  say !  1 
knew  you  wouldn't,"  she  exclaimed  with  delight.  "  Oh,  Cloudy  ! 
I  do  love  you  so  much !  I  do  love  you  better  than  the  whole 
world  put  together." 

When  the  day  at  last  came  for  Cloudesley's  departure,  it  was 
arranged  that  his  baggage  should  be  sent  on  before  in  a  cart, 
and  that  the  Conitncdore  should  take  him  in  the  carriage  to 
B ,  whence  he  was  to  sail  to  Baltimore.  Jacquelina  went 


172  THE       MISSING      BRIDE. 

through  the  parting  like  a  Trojan !  Indeed,  she  did  not  feel  or 
reah/e  it  at  all.  Cloudy  was  full  of  spirits,  and  so  was  she 
On  taking  leave,  she  threw  herself  for  the  last  time  around 
Cloudy's  neck,  exclaiming,  as  usual, 

"  Oh !  Cloudy !  I  do  love  you  best  of  all  in  the  whole  world  !T; 

And  he  returning  the  parting  caress,  answered,  as  always, 

"  And  so  do  I  you,  Lina  I  But  you  wont  say  you  love  me 
Alien  I  come  back!" 

"Wont  I,  then  1  If  I  don't,  you  may  call  me  a  big  story- 
teller!" 

And  so,  without  sentimentality  or  tears,  the  boy  and  girl 
separated.  Cloudesley  entered  the  carriage  with  the  Commo- 
dore, and  was  driven  off  towards  Benedict.  And  Jacquelina 
re-entered  the  lonesome  house — very  lonesome  it  seemed  indeed 
with  Cloudy  and  the  pleasant  bustle  all  gone,  and  the  excite- 
ment of  his  going  all  over,  and  the  reaction  at  hand !  How 
empty  Cloudy's  room  looked !  He  would  not  be  in  that  room 
again  for  three  years  at  least!  Three  years  !  what  an  intermina- 
ble time  !  Say  never  at  once !  It  had  not  struck  the  child  in 
that  manner  before,  but  now  it  did  with  all  its  force !  And 
now  she  felt  stunned,  amazed,  with  only  the  power  left  to  won- 
der why  she  had  not  realized  what  this  parting  truly  was  before  ! 
There  was  nothing  left  of  Cloudy's  in  the  room,  except  an 
old  pair  of  boots — but  "  Jacko"  thought  they  looked  so  like 
Cloudy — at  least  they  so  reminded  her  of  Cloudy,  that  she  fell 
upon  them  in  a  vehement  fit  of  grief,  the  first  she  had  felt  upon 
his  account.  AVhat  made  it  worse  for  poor  Lina,  was  the  fact 
her  mother  and  her  aunty  had  also  gone  to  Benedict  to  make 
some  purchases,  and  to  see  Cloudy  off.  And  the  house  was 
left  to  herself,  and  Maria,  her  maid.  So  Jacquelina  mourned, 
with  no  one  to  comfort  her. 

About  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  however,  there  happened 

to  arrive  two  visitors  from  C ,  namely,  Miss  "Nancy  Skamp 

and  her  accomplished  nephew,  Mr.  Solomon  Weismann,  the 
medical  student.  They  had  come  in  total  ignorance  of  the  ab- 
%euce  of  the  family  for  that  day.  However,  that  made  uo 


SANS      SCUCl'S       FIRST       GRIEF.  173 

difference  at  Luckenough.  Maria  informed  the  guests  that  her 
mistress  would  be  home  in  the  afternoon,  and  would  be  very 
glad  to  find  them ;  also,  that  Miss  Jacquelina  was  very  much 
down,  about  Master  Cloudesley's  going  away,  and  that  it  would 
be  kindness  for  them  to  stay  and  cheer  her  up.  And  therefore 
Miss  Nancy  Skamp  and  her  nephew — neither  of  whom  had  the 
slightest  idea  of  going  back — charitably  consented  to  remain. 
They  were  shown  into  the  parlor,  into  which  Jacquelina  pre- 
sently came  to  bid  them  welcome.  Poor  Sans  Soucrs  eyes 
were  red,  and  her  face  was  swelled  with  crying.  Miss  Nancy 
Skamp  saluted  the  child  with  a  kiss,  and  after  asking  about 
the  health  of  her  mother,  and  her  aunty,  and  the  Commodore, 
£c.,  began  to  "cheer"  the  little  hostess  up  with  all  the  en- 
livening gossip  she  could  thi-nk  of — how  Peter  Semmcs  was 
going  to  have  his  leg  taken  off,  because  mortification  had  set  in ; 
and  how  Doctor  Brightwell's  little  boy  had  lost  his  eyesight 
since  he  had  the  measles  ;  and  how  widow  Lloyd's  sou  had  been 
taken  up  for  petty  larceny,  and  his  mother  had  lost  her  reason, 
and  tried  to  drown  herself,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  But  none  of  these 
things  appeared  to  raise  Jacqueliua's  spirits  in  the  least  degree. 

And  presently  Solomon  commenced.  He  had  his  own  pet 
theory  of  curing  grief,  namely,  upon  the  Homoeopathic  prin- 
ciple. So  he  began — • 

"  So,  Cloudy  is  gone,  Miss  Jacquelina?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child,  trying  to  command  herself,  and  to 
behave  "  like  a  lady." 

"  Poor  Cloudy  !  how  long  is  he  going  to  be  absent  ?" 

"  Three-ee  years!"  cried  Sans  Souci,  beginning  to  falter  and 
lose  her  self  control. 

"Oh!  poo-oor  Cloud-dy!"  said  Solomon,  in  the  most  pa- 
thetic of  tones. 

"Oil!  Oh,  dear!  Oh,  hoo-oq  !"  sobbed  Sans  Souci,  still 
trying  valiantly  to  suppress  an  outbreak  of  grief. 

'•  Poor,  dear  Cloud-dy  !  Away  upon  the  stormy  sea  for— 
three — ivhole — years!  Oh!  my!  what  a  long  time!  it  will 
hardly  ever  come  to  an  end  Poor  Cloud-dy !  Not  to  sec 
11 


174  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Cloudy  for  three  whole  years  !  What  in  the  world  will  you 
ao  ?»  " 

"Oh!  oh!  don't!  don't!"  cried  the  tortured  child,  striving 
to  suppress  her  sobs. 

"  And  for  him  to  live  on  beef  junk,  and  mouldy  crackers,  and 
stale  water,  for — three — whole — years!" 

"  Oh !  oh  !  don't!  I  shall  smother!  I  shall  die  !  Oh !  hecca  1 
hecca!"  gasped  Jacquelina,  struggling  for  breath. 

"  And  then  to  have  to  climb  up  to  the  mast-head  in  the 
dreadful  storms,  and  be  rocked  about  between  the  thundering 
and  lightning  clouds,  and  the  boiling  oceau  waves,  until  maybe 
he  is  shaken  off,  and  pitched  into  the  depths  of  the  sea,  and 
drowned  !" 

"  Oh  I  hecca!  hecca!  hoo-oo  1"  gasped  Sans  Souci,  really 
suffocating 

"  And  then  if  he  makes  the  least  objection  to  that  sort  ol 
treatment,  to  be  court-martialed  for  mutiny,  and  hanged  like  a 
dog  at  the  yard-arm  !"  said  the  merciless  Solomon. 

"Oh!  hecca!  hecca — hoo-oo — cahoo  I"  gasped  and  strug- 
gled Jacquelina,  as  she  fell  back  in  spasms. 

"  There,  now  !  what  have  you  done  to  the  child  ?"  said  Miss 
Nancy  Skamp,  coming  forward  with  her  aromatic  salts. 

"  Go  away,  Aunt  Nancy !  You're  an  old  lady,  and  I'm  a 
medical  man!  two  classes  that  never  did  agree,  and  never  will. 
I  know  my  business !  Let  her  alone,  I  tell  you  ;  don't  raise  her 
head  up !  There,  now  !  she's  got  off  a  whole  month's  grieving 
in  that  spasm  !  I  tell  you  I  don't  believe  in  these  old  chronic 
troubles  ;  these  enduring  neart-aches.  If  anybody  has  a  grief, 
let  them  bring  it  to  a  crisis  at  once  :  look  at  it  on  its  very  dark- 
est  side,  and  nurse  it  up  till  it  rises  to  a  head,  and  breaks  in 
tears  and  sobs,  and,  if  need  be,  spasms,  and  then  it  goes  off!" 

"  Yes  !  and  the  patieut  goes  off  with  it !"  said  Miss  Nancy, 
indignantly. 

"  No,  the  patient  doesn't  go  off  with  it !  Not  when  the  patient 
!s  young  and  strong,  as  this  one  ;  and  of  course,  in  all  cases,  a  skill- 
ful practitioner  modifies  his  treatment  according  to  the  age  and 


SANS      SOUCl'S      FIRST      GRIEF.  175 

constitution  of  the  subject.  I  have  my  own  theory  of  the  treat- 
ment and  cure  of  grief.  Now,  grief  is  a  passion  that  acts 
powerfully  upon  the  body,  and  is  reacted  upon  in  the  same  de- 
gree by  the  body.  Thus  grief  tends  to  surcharge  the  heart  and 
lungs  with  blood,  making  that  sense  of  weight  and  heat  that 
causes  the  frequent  sigh.  Now,  what  is  a  sigh  but  the  drawing 
in  of  a  deep  draught  of  cold  air  to  relieve  the  heat  of  the  chest  ? 
Tears  also  relieve,  by  throwing  off  the  superabundance  of  fluid 
pressing  against  the  brain.  Sobs  and  spasms  and  so  on,  are 
better  still,  for  they  tend  to  drive  away  the  blood  that  might- 
congest  near  the  heart.  In  a  word,  sighs,  tears,  and  sobs  are 
the  agents  appointed  by  nature  to  relieve  body  and  mind,  by 
throwing  off  the  heat  and  weight  accumulated  by  grief,  and  dis- 
pelling the  congestion  by  sending  the  blood  in  healthy  circula- 
tion through  the  extremities.  Hence  the  ineffable  relief  you 
women  feel  after  having  what  you  call  a  good  cry  1  It  is  your 
suppressed  grief  that  kills." 

"Yes;  I  have  heard  silent  sorrow  is  very  apt  to  break  the 
heart,"  said  Miss  Nancy,  sentimentally. 

"  No,  it  doesn't  break  the  heart,  neither !  that  is  another 
popular  fallacy.  Every  physician  knows  the  heart  can't  break  ! 
Why,  it  is  about  the  toughest  part  of  the  human  body." 

"  It  has  need  to  be,  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Nancy,  la- 
conically. 

"  Well,  and  it  is,  and  it  never  breaks ;  when  grief  kills,  as 
it  does  sometimes,  from  suppression,  there  is  usually  a  conges- 
tion of  the  portal  circle,  a  failure  of  the  gaglionic  nerves,  or, 
perhaps,  a  general  atrophy,  but  never  a  broken  heart — a  post- 
mortem examination  would  probably  find  the  heart  the  sound- 
est of  all  the  members.  Grief  never  would  kill,  however,  if  it 
wa'n't  for  that  humbug  'fortitude.'  Now,  fortitude  is  in  direct 
opposition  to  the  laws  of  nature.  Fortitude  has  slain  more 
than  grief  or  pain.  I  would  have  any  one  in  grief  weep  and 
wail ;  they  will  get  over  it  the  sooner  !  and  I  would  have  any 
one  in  great  physical  pain  cry  out  lustily — it  will  do  them  good  1 
But,  I  declare,  here's  that  child  come  round  already.  It  is  too 


lT6  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

soon — »M  hasn't  half  unladen  her  bosom  yet !  Poor  Cloudy 
Pon-onr  floud-dy  !"  he  said,  turning  to  Sans  Souci,  who  was 
sitting  np  on  the  sofa,  wiping  her  eyes.  "  Poor  Cloudy!" 

Sans  Scuci  looked  at  him  resentfully. 

"But  /would  not  trouble  myself  about  him,  if  I  were  you, 
either ;  for  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  he  wont  trouble  him- 
self about  you  longl" 

"  I  don't  want  him  to,  I'm  sure  !  But  I  know  he'll  think  of 
me !"  said  Jacko. 

"  Not  he,  indeed !  What !  Why,  you're  nothing  but  a  little 
girl !  and  he  is  a  gentleman  and  an  officer,  and  he'll  go  to 
foreign  countries,  yes,  and  to  foreign  courts  also  ;  officers  go 
everywhere,  and  he'll  see  many  beautiful  and  accomplished 
ladies ;  not  little  chits  of  children,  but  grown  ladies,  who  will 
admire  him,  and  dote  on  him ;  ladies  always  dote  on  officers, 
especially  handsome  young  officers  like  him,  and  he'll  never 
think  of  you  again!" 

"  He  will !  Cloudy  will !  I  don't  care  if  the  queen  falls  in 
love  with  him,  Cloudy  wont  forget  me  !  We're  engaged  !" 

"  Think  so  ?  Ah,  child !  Cloudy  is  lost  to  you,  indeed  ! 
You  had  better  try  to  forget  him,  for,  between  one  thing  and 
another,  you'll  never  see  him  the  same  again  !  for  if  he  don't 
fall  from  the  mast-head  and  get  drowned  ;  nor  mutiny  and  get 
hanged;  nor  catch  the  yellow  fever  and  die  in  a  hospital,  he'll 
be  sure  to  fall  in  love  with  some  fine  lady,  and  never  come 
back  to  see  the  little  girl  again  !" 

"  Cloudy  wont !  Cloudy  wont  do  any  such  thing,  you 
monster,  you !  Oh !  how  I  wish  Cloudy  were  here  to  whip 
you !"  and  Sans  Souci  fell  once  more  upon  the  sofa  in  a  tem- 
pest of  tears  and  sobs,  caused  this  time  as  much  by  anger  as 
sorrow 

"  There  !"  said  Solomon,  "  I  reckon  I  have  given  her  such  a 
dose  that  she'll  be  sick  of  the  subject  of  Cloudy,  and  glad 
enough  to  turn  to  something  else  and  make  herself  happy  I" 


PART     THIRD. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

WANDERING      FANNY. 

"All  was  confused  and  undefined 
In  her  all-jarred  and  wandering  mind, 
A  chaos  of  wild  hopies  and  fears; 
And  now  in  laughter  now  in  tears, 
Bxit  madly  still  in  each  extreme, 
She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream." — Byron. 

IT  was  a  jocund  morning  in  early  summer — some  five  years 
afier  the  events  related  in  the  last  chapter. 

The  sun  had  risen  in  cloudless  splendor  above  the  bright 
waters  of  the  Chesapeake,  and  all  nature  rejoiced  in  the  beauty 
and  glory  of  the  day !  There  was  gladness  in  the  radiant 
morning  sky  !  gladness  in  the  fresh  elastic  air!  gladness  in  the 
sparkle  and  flash  of  the  fluid  emerald  waves !  gladness  in  the 
dance  of  the  dewy  forest  leaves !  gladness  in  the  smiles  of  the 
blooming  flowers!  and  rapture  in  the  jubilant  carolling  of  a 
thousand  birds  that  sent  up  their  morning  song  of  praise  and 
thanksgiving. 

The  matin  hymn  of  all  nature  was  a  Gloria-in-Excelsis. 

Old  Field  Cottage,  standing  in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  was 
a  perfect  gem  of  rural  beauty.  The  Old  Fields  themselves  no 
longer  deserved  the  name — the  repose  of  years  had  restored 
them  to  fertility,  and  now  they  were  blooming  in  pristine  youth 
— far  as  the  eye  could  reach  between  the  cottage  and  the  forest, 

077) 


178  THE      MIS  SI  IT  a      BRIDE. 

and  the  cottage  and  the  sea-beach,  the  fields  were  covered  nth 
a  fine  growth  of  sweet  clover,  whose  verdure  was  most  refresh- 
ing to  the  sight.  The  young  trees  planted  by  Marian,  had 
grown  up,  forming  a  pleasant  grove  around  the  house.  The 
sweet  honeysuckle  and  fragrant  white  jasmine,  and  the  rich, 
aromatic,  climbing  rose,  set  and  trained  by  Marian,  had  run  all 
over  the  walls  and  windows  of  the  house,  embowering  it  in 
verdure,  bloom  and  perfume. 

And  upon  this  glorious  summer  morning  Marian  had  come 
out  into  the  flower  yard  to  enjoy  the  fresh,  invigorating  air,  and 
to  see  the  sun  as  it  were,  rise  up  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  touch- 
ing with  living  fire  every  sparkling  emerald  wave !  She  was 
standing  at  the  little  wicket  gate — there  was  a  rustic  arch  span- 
ning the  gateway.  She  had  trained  morning-glories  to  climb 
over  it,  and  now  she  stood  beneath  them  rejoicing  in  the 
beauty  and  splendor  of  her  best  beloved  flowers,  rejoicing  with 
a  shade  of  pensiveness  in  her  joy — for  how  perfect,  yet  how 
evanescent  was  the  beauty  of  these  morning-glories,  these  most 
lovely  and  fragile  and  ephemeral  of  all  Flora's  children.  In 
perfect  harmony  with  the  freshness  and  splendor  of  the  hour, 
was  the  beautiful  girl,  as  she  stood  carelessly  under  the  arch  of 
morning-glories — a  very  Hebe !  a  very  goddess  of  joyous  life 
and  health,  and  summer  and  sunshine.  Into  what  a  glorious 
fullness  and  perfection  of  beauty  had  the  maiden  ripened  !  Her 
finely  developed  form  had  attained  a  prouder  height  and  richer 
fullness,  and  was  suffused  with  the  fresh,  cool,  roseate  flush  of 
pure  blood  and  perfect  health  ;  her  superb  bosom  and  shoulders 
had  a  more  charming  contour — and  her  fine  head  arose  with  a 
queenlier  grace.  Her  rosy  cheeks  were  richer  and  brighter  in 
their  bloom  ;  her  clear  blue  eyes  were  darker  in  hue  and  deeper 
in  expression,  and  her  luxuriant  golden  bronze  hair  was 
brighter  in  the  sunshine  and  darker  in  the  shade  than  hereto- 
fore. She  wore  her  hair  as  before — parted  over  the  snowy 
forehead,  rippling  in  tiny  burnished  wavelets  down  each  side 
the  blooming  cheeks,  and  gathered  into  a  shining  mass  behind, 
from  which  escaped  here  and  thc-re  a  fugitive  ^rcss,  *wistmg 
itself  into  a  glittering  spiral  ringlet. 


WANDERING      FANNY.  179 

While  Marian  stood  enjoying  for  a  few  moments  the  morn- 
ing hour,  she  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  rapid  footsteps,  and 
then  by  the  sight  of  a  young  woman  in  wild  attire,  issuing 
from  the  grove  at  the  right  of  the  cottage,  and  flying  like  a 
hunted  hare  towards  the  house. 

Marian  impulsively  opened  the  gate,  and  the  creature  fled  in, 
frantically  clapped  to  the  gate,  and  stood  leaning  with  her 
back  against  it,  and  panting  with  haste  and  terror. 

She  was  a  young  and  pretty  woman — pretty,  notwithstand- 
ing the  wilduess  of  her  staring  black  eyes  and  the  disorder  of 
her  long  black  hair  that  hung  in  tangled  tresses  to  her  waist. 
Her  head  and  feet  were  bare,  and  her  white  gown  was  spotted 
with  green  stains  of  the  grass,  and  torn  by  briars,  as  were  also 
her  bleeding  feet  and  arms.  Marian  felt  for  her  the  deepest 
compassion  ;  a  mere  glance  had  assured  her  that  the  poor,  pant- 
ing, pretty  creature  was  insane.  Marian  took  her  hand  and 
gently  pressing  it,  said, 

"You  look  very  tired  and  faint — come  in  and  rest  yourself 
and  take  breakfast  with  us." 

The  stranger  drew  away  her  hand  and  looked  at  Marian  from 
head  to  foot.  But  in  the  midst  of  her  scrutiny,  she  suddenly 
sprang,  glanced  around,  and  trembling  violently,  grasped  the 
gate  for  support.  It  was  but  the  tramping  of  a  colt  through 
the  clover  that  had  startled  her. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened  ;  there  is  nothing  that  can  hurt  you  ; 
you  are  safe  here." 

"  And  wont  he  come  ?" 

"  Who,  poor  girl  ?" 

"The  Destroyer!" 

"  No,  poor  one,  no  destroyer  comes  near  us  here ;  see  how 
quiet  and  peacable  everything  is  here!" 

The  wanderer  slowly  shook  her  head  with  a  cunning,  bitter 
Bmile,  that  looked  stranger  on  her  fair  face  than  the  madness 
;tself  had  looked,  and, 

"  So  it  was  there,"  she  said,  "  but  the  Destroyer  was  at  hand, 
and  the  thunder  of  terror  and  destruction  burst  upon  our  quiet 


180  THE      MISSING     BRIDE. 

— but  I  forgot — the  fair  spirit  said  I  was  not  to  think  of  that 
— such  thoughts  would  invoke  the  fiend  again,"  added  the  pool 
creature,  smoothing  her  forehead  with  both  hands,  and  then 
flinging  them  wide,  as  if  to  dispel  and  cast  away  some  painful 
concentration  there. 

"  Look  at  the  flowers,"  said  Marian,  "  are  they  not  beautiful 
this  morning?" 

The  stranger's  face  softened  into  a  sweet,  placid,  pensive 
tenderness,  and, 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  very  slowly,  "  the  flowers  were  always  very 
kind  to  me,  the  dear,  blessed  flowers — they  never  change  to  me 
as  others  change — they  never  call  me  '  Crazy  Fan,' — nor  '  Poor 
Fan,' — they  don't  seem  to  think  I  am  so — and  they  smile  on 
me,  and  lean  towards  me,  and  love  me  like  I  was  another 
flower." 

"  And  so  you  are,  poor  wanderer,  a  broken,  storm-beaten, 
faded  flower — but  a  flower  that  may  yet  bloom  in  Paradise," 
thought  Marian,  as  she  reached  her  hand  to  gather  a  white  lily, 
and  hand  it  to  the  stanger. 

But  the  hand  of  the  poor  stroller  prevented  her. 

"  Oh,  do  not  break  the  lily  !  If  you  knew  what  a  heavenly 
message  the  white  lily  brings,"  she  said,  "  and  oh  !  if  you  knew 
how  sad  it  is  to  be  broken  off  and  never  find  your  root  of  life 
again  !  /was  broken  off,  but  the  broken  flowers  are  happier 
than  I,  for  they  die  !" 

"  Because  you  are  immortal,  and  must  live  to  recover,  in 
another  and  better  world,  the  treasures  you  have  lost  here,'' 
said  Marian,  gravely  and  sweetly. 

"  I  know — I  know  !"  murmured  the  maniac,  softly,  to  herself, 
"  but  why  am  I  shut  out  so  long  ?" 

"We  cannot  tell — we  must  all  wait  our  time.  But,  como 
into  the  house,  Fanny — you  said  your  name  was  Fanny,  did  you 
not?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  suddenly  changing  her  manner, 
and  breaking  into  son*r. 


WANDERING      FANNY.  181 

"  They  called  me  dark-eyed  Fanny, 

When  friends  aud  fortune  smiled — 
But  Fortune  proved  uncanny, 
And  now  I'm  Sorrow's  child  i" 

"Well,  Sorrow  is  riot  an  unkind  mother,  in  the  end,  poor 
Fanny — be  sure  of  that.  And  now  come  in  and  lie  down  on 
the  sofa,  and  rest,  while  I  make  you  a  cup  of  coffee.  Come  1 
come  into  the  house  !" 

But  the  same  expression  of  cunning  came  again  into  the 
poor  creature's  face,  as  she  said — 

"  In  the  house  ?  No,  no — no,  no  1  Fanny  has  learned  some- 
thing !  Fanny  knows  better  than  to  go  under  roofs — they  are 
traps  to  catch  rabbits  !  'Twas  in  the  house  the  Destroyer  found 
us,  and  we  couldn't  get  out !  No,  no  !  a  fair  field  and  no  favor 
and  Fanny  will  outfly  the  fleetest  of  them  1  But  not  in  a  house  ! 
not  in  a  house  !" 

"Well,  then,  I  will  bring  an  easy  chair  out  here  for  you  to 
rest  in, — you  can  sit  under  the  shade,  and  have  a  little  stand  by 
your  side,  to  eat  your  breakfast.  Come !  come  nearer  to  the 
house,"  said  Marian,  taking  poor  Fanny's  hand,  and  leading 
her  up  the  walk. 

They  were  at  the  threshold. 

"  No  !  no  !  I  can't  go  so  near  the  house  I  I  can't  indeed  !  I 
am  the  Doomed,  and  Fate  follows  in  my  footsteeps !"  said  the 
poor  creature,  pulling  back. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Come,  be  gentle  and  good,  and  no  harm 
can  touch  you  here.  Come,  if  you  will  not  enter  the  house,  sit 
down  here,  on  this  porch  step,  until  I  make  you  more  comfortable." 

"No!  no  !  I  must  not!  I  should  bring  evil  to  the  home! 
I  have  brought  evil !  I  ought  not  to  have  entered  yonr  gate  !" 
cried  the  maniac,  wildly,  wrenching  her  hand  from  Marian's 
clasp,  and  turning  to  depart. 

"  But,  why  ?"  said  Marian,  gently,  going  after  her.  "  Why  ? 
we  do  not  fear  evil  here  !" 

"  Don't  follow  me ! — don't !  I  am  a  conductor  of  evil  I  I 
Should  draw  a  thunderbolt  of  misfortune  down  upon  your  head  ! 
Avoid  me ! 


132  THE      MISSINO      BRIDE. 

"  Not  so  !  I  would  invoke  the  thunderbolt  upon  my  own 
head,  sooner  than  I  would  desert  a  sister  woman  to  the  fury  of 
misfortune's  storm!" 

"  You  would  ?"  said  the  wanderer,  turning  and  facing  her 

"  The  Lord  knows  I  would  1     I  hope  any  woman  would." 

The  poor  creature  slowly  and  sadly  shook  her  head,  answer- 
ing at  random — 

"  No  !  no  !  It  was  not  my  fault !  But  if  the  plague  had 
boized  me — if  I  had  been  a  leper — What  was  I  going  to  say  ? 
Oh  !"  And  the  maniac  clasped  her  temples,  and  her  features 
grew  sharp,  and  her  eyes  intense,  as  if  in  pursuit  of  an  idea, 
that  she  seemed  now  to  have  found,  now  to  have  lost.  At  last, 
suddenly  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  gazed  intently  into  Marian's 
face,  and  then  she  gave  a  start,  and  her  features  began  to  work 
strangely. 

"Are  you  Marian  ?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"Yes,  that  is  my  name." 

"  Oh,  I  oughtn't  to  have  come  here !  I  oughtn't  to  have  come 
here  !" 

"Why?  What  is  the  matter  ?  Come,  be  calm  !  Nothing 
can  hurt  you  or  us  here  I" 

"  Don't  love !  Marian,  don't  love !  Be  a  nun,  or  drown 
yourself,  but  never  love  !"  said  the  woman,  seizing  the  young 
girl's  hands,  gazing  on  her  beautiful  face,  and  speaking  with 
intense  and  painful  earnestness. 

"  Why?  Love  is  life.  You  had  as  well  tell  me  not  to  live 
as  not  to  love.  Poor  sister !  I  have  not  known  you  an  hour, 
yet  your  sorrows  so  touch  me,  that  my  heart  goes  out  towards 
you,  and  I  want  to  bring  you  in  to  our  home,  and  take  care  of 
you,"  said  Marian,  gently. 

"  You  do  ?"  asked  the  wanderer,  incredulously. 

"Heaven  knows  I  do !  I  wish  to  nurse  you  back  to  health 
and  calmness." 

"  Then  1  would  not  for  the  world  bring  so  much  evil  to  you  I 
Yet  it  is  a  lovelier  place  to  die  in,  with  loving  faces  around. 

"  But  it  is  a  better  plac6  to  live  iu  !     I  do  not  let  people  die 


WANDERING      FANNY.  183 

where  I  am,  unless  the  Lord  lias  especially  called  them.  I  wish 
to  make  you  well !  Come,  drive  away  all  these  evil  fancies 
and  let  we  take  you  into  the  cottage,"  said  Marian,  taking  her 
hand. 

Yielding  to  the  influence  of  the  young  girl,  poor  Fanny 
suffered  herseL  to  be  led  a  few  steps  towards  the  cottage  ;  then, 
with  a  piercing  shriek,  she  suddenly  snatched  her  hand  away, 
crying — 

"I  should  draw  the  lightning  down  upon  your  head  !  I  am 
doomed !  I  must  not  enter  !"  And  she  turned  and  fled  out 
of  the  gate. 

Marian  gazed  after  her  in  the  deepest  compassion,  the  tears 
filling  her  kind  blue  eyes. 

"  Weep  not  for  me,  beautiful  and  loving  Marian,  but  for  your- 
Belf— yourself!" 

Marian  hesitated.  It  were  vain  to  follow  and  try  to  draw 
the  wanderer  into  the  house  ;  yet  she  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  leaving  her.  In  the  meantime  the  sound  of  the  shriek  had 
brought  Edith  out.  She  came,  leading  little  Miriam  by  the 
hand. 

Edith  was  scarcely  changed  in  these  five  years — a  life  without 
excitement  or  privation  or  toil — a  life  of  moderation  and  regu- 
larity— of  easy  household  duties,  and  quiet  family  affections, 
had  restored  and  preserved  her  maiden  beauty.  And  now  her 
pretty  hair  had  its  own  will,  and  fell  in  slight,  flossy  black 
ringlets  down  each  side  the  pearly  brow  and  cheeks ;  and  no- 
thing could  have  been  more  in  keeping  with  the  style  of  her 
beauty  than  the  simple,  close-fitting  black  gown,  her  habitual 
dress. 

But  lovely  as  the  young  mother  was,  you  would  scarcely 
have  looked  at  her  a  second  time  while  she  held  that  child  by 
Lor  hand — so  marvelous  was  the  fascination  of  that  little  crea- 
ture's countenance.  It  was  a  face  to  attract,  to  charm,  to  de- 
iight,  to  draw  you  in,  and  rivet  your  whole  attention,  until  you 
became  absorbed  and  lost  in  the  study  of  its  mysterious  spell — 
a  witching  face,  whose  nameless  charm  it  were  impossible  to  tell. 


184  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

I  might  describe  the  fine  dark  Jewish  features,  the  glorious  eyes, 
the  brilliant  complexion,  and  the  fall  of  long,  glossy,  black 
ringlets  that  veiled  the  proud  little  head  ;  but  the  spell  lay  not 
in  them,  any  more  than  in  the  perfect  symmtery  of  her  form,  or 
the  harmonious  grace  of  her  motion,  or  the  melodious  intona- 
tions of  her  voice.  She  wore  a  black  dress  like  her  mother's — 
Edith  would  have  it  so. 

And  the  color  was  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  character  of 
the  little  girl's  countenance.  For  it  might  be  hereditary  tern 
perament,  or  peculiar  individuality,  or  her  mother's  deep  dis- 
tress just  preceding  and  following  her  birth  ;  either  or  all  of 
these,  but  something  gave  to  the  child's  splendid  Syrian  beauty 
a  prevailing  expression  of  impassioned  melancholy.  And  there, 
perhaps,  lay  the  mystery  of  its  spell. 

Edith,  still  leading  the  little  girl,  advanced  to  Marian's  side, 
where  the  latter  stood  at  the  yard  gate. 

•'  I  heard  a  scream,  Marian,  dear, — what  was  it  ?" 

Marian  pointed  to  the  old  elm  tree  outside  the  cottage  fence, 
under  the  shade  of  which  stood  the  poor  stroller,  pressing  her 
side,  and  panting  for  breath. 

"  Edith,  do  you  see  that  young  woman  ?     She  it  was." 

"Good  Heaven  1"  exclaimed  Edith,  turning  a  shade  paler, 
and  beginning,  with  trembling  fingers,  to  unfasten  the  gate. 

"  Why,  do  you  know  her,  Edith  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes !  My  soul,  it  is  Fanny  Laurie  !  I  thought  she 
was  in  some  asylum  at  the  north !"  said  Edith,  passing  the  gate, 
and  going  up  to  the  wanderer.  "  Fanny !  Fanny  !  Dearest 
Fanny !"  she  said,  taking  her  thin  hand,  and  looking  in  her 
crazed  eyes,  and  lastly  putting  both  arms  around  her  neck  and 
kissing  her. 

"  Do  you  kiss  me  ?"  asked  the  poor  creature,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  dear  Fanny!     Don't  you  know  me?" 

"Yes,  yes,  you  arc — I  know  you — you  are — let's  see,  now — " 

"  Edith  Lance,  you  know — your  old  playmate  !" 

"Ah!  yes,  I  know — you  had  another  name." 

"Edith  Shields,  since  I  was  married,  but  I  am  widowed  uow> 
Fan?iv.M 


WANDERING      FANNY.  185 

"  Yes,  I  know — Fanny  has  heard  them  talk !" 

She  swept  her  hands  across  her  brow  several  times,  as  if  to 
clear  her  mental  vision,  and  gazing  upon  Edith,  said, 

"Ah !  old  playmate !  Did  the  palms  lie  ?  The  ravaged  home, 
the  blood-stained  hearth,  and  the  burning  roof  for  me — the 
fated  nuptials,  the  murdered  bridegroom,  and  the  fatherless 
child  for  you.  Did  the  palms  lie,  Edith  ?  You  were  ever  in- 
credulous !  Answer,  did  the  palms  lie  ?" 

"  The  prediction  was  partly  fulfilled,  as  it  was  very  likely  to  be 
at  the  time  our  neighborhood  was  overrun  by  a  ruthless  foe.  It 
happened  so,  poor  Fanny !  You  did  not  know  the  future,  any 
more  than  I  did — no  one  on  earth  knows  the  mysteries  of  the 
future,  '  not  the  angels  iu  heaven,  nor  the  Son,  but  the  Father 
only.'" 

This  seemed  to  annoy  the  poor  creature — soothsaying,  by 
palmistry,  had  been  her  weakness  in  her  brighter  days,  and  now 
the  strange  propensity  clung  to  her  through  the  dark  night  of 
her  sorrows,  and  received  strength  from  her  insanity. 

"  Come  in,  dear  Fanny,"  said  Edith,  "come  in  aud  stay  with 
us." 

"No,  no '."she  almost  shrieked  again.  "I  should  bring  a 
curse  upon  your  house !  Oh !  I  could  tell  you  if  you  would  hear ! 
I  could  warn  you,  if  you  would  be  warned !  But  you  will  not! 
you  will  not!"  she  continued,  wringing  her  hands  in  great 
trouble. 

"You  shall  predict  my  fate  and  Miriam's,"  said  Marian, 
smiling,  as  she  opened  the  gate,  and  came  out  leading  the  child. 
"And  I  know,"  she  continued,  holding  out  her  palm,  "that  it 
will  be  such  a  fair  fate,  as  to  brighten  up  your  spirits  for  sym 
pathy  with  it." 

"  No !  I  will  not  look  at  your  hand !"  cried  Fanny,  turning 
away.  Then,  suddenly  changing  her  mood,  she  snatched 
Marian's  palm,  and  gazed  upon  it  long  and  intently;  gradually 
her  featuies  became  disturbed — dark  shadows  seemed  to  sweep, 
as  a  funereal  train,  across  her  face — her  bosom  heaved — she 
dropped  the  maiden's  hand. 
15* 


186  THE      MISSING      B  K  I  D  E . 

"  Why,  Fanny,  you  have  told  me  nothing ! — What  do  you  see 
in  my  future  ?"  asked  Marian. 

The  maniac  looked  up,  and  breaking,  as  she  sometimes  did, 
into  improvisation,  chanted,  in  the  most  mournful  of  tones,  these 
words : 

"  Darkly,  deadly,  lowers  the  shadow, 

Quickly,  thickly,  comes  the  crowd— 
From  death's  bosom  creeps  the  adder, 
Trailing  slime  upon  the  shroud!" 

Marian  grew  pale,  so  much,  at  the  moment,  was  she  infected 
with  the  words  and  manner  of  this  sybil ;  but  then,  "  Nonsense  !" 
she  thought,  and,  with  a  smile,  roused  herself  to  shake  off  the 
chill  that  was  creeping  upon  her. 

"Feel!  the  air!  the  air!"  said  Fanny,  lifting  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  it  is  going  to  rain,"  said  Edith.  "  Come  in,  dear 
Fanny." 

But  Fanny  did  not  hear — the  fitful,  uncertain  creature  had 
seized  the  hand  of  the  child  Miriam,  and  was  gazing  alternately 
upon  the  lines  in  the  palm  and  upon  her  fervid,  eloquent  face. 

"What  is  this?  Oh!  what  is  this?"  she  said,  sweeping  the 
black  tresses  back  from  her  bending  brow,  and  fastening  her  eyes 
upon  Miriam's  palm.  "  What  can  it  mean  ?  A  deep  cross 
from  the  Mount  of  Yenus  crosses  the  line  of  life,  and 'forks  into 
the  line  of  death!  a  great  sun  in  the  plait  of  Mars, — a  cloud  in 
the  vale  of  Mercury !  and  where  the  lines  of  life  and  death  meet, 
a  sanguine  spot  and  a  great  star !  I  cannot  read  it !  In  a 
boy's  hand,  that  would  betoken  a  hero's  career,  and  a  glorious 
death  in  a  victorious  field;  but  in  a  girVs!  What  can  it  mean 
when  found  in  a  girl's  ?  Stop  !"  And  she  peered  into  the  hand 
for  a  few  moments  in  deep  silence,  and  then  her  face  lighted  up, 
her  eyes  burned  intensely,  and  once  more  she  broke  forth  in  im- 
provisation— 

"Thou  shalt  be  bless'd  as  maiden  fair  was  never  bless'd  before 
And  the  heart  of  thy  belov'd  shall  be  most  gentle,  kind  and  pure 
But  thy  rod  hand  shall  be  lifted  at  duty's  storn  btfuqt, 
And  give  to  fell  destruction  the  head  thou  lov'st  the  best 

Feel!  the  air!  the  air!"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly  droppirg  the 
child's  haiid,  and  lifting  her  own  towards  the  sky. 


WANDERING      FANNY.  187 

"  Yes,  I  told  you  it  was  going  to  rain,  but  there  will  not  be 
much,  only  a  light  shower  from  the  cloud  just  over  our  heads." 

"  It  is  going  to  weep!  Nature  mourns  for  her  darling  child  1 
Hark  !  I  hear  the  step  of  him  that  cometh !  Fly,  fair  one !  fly  I 
Stay  not  here  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  charmer,  charm  he 
never  so  wisely !"  cried  the  wild  creature,  as  she  dashed  off 
towards  the  forest. 

Marian  and  Edith  looked  after  her,  in  the  utmost  compassion. 

"  Who  ?'sthe  poor,  dear  creature,  Edith,  and  what  has  reduced 
her  to  this  state  ?" 

"  She  was  an  old  playmate  of  my  own,  Marian.  I  never  men- 
tioned her  to  you — I  never  could  bear  to  do  so.  She  was  one 
of  the  victims  of  the  war.  She  was  the  child  of  Colonel  Fairlie 
and  the  bride  of  Henry  Laurie,  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
and  promising  young  men  in  the  state.  In  one  night  their  house 
was  attacked,  and  Fanny  saw  her  father  and  her  husband  mas- 
sacred, and  her  home  burned  before  her  face !  She — fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  soldiers !  She  went  mad  from  that  night." 

"  Most  horrible!"  ejaculated  Marian. 

"  She  was  sent  to  one  of  the  best  northern  asylums,  and  the 
property  she  inherited  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  trustee — old 
Mr.  Hughes,  who  died  last  week,  you  know  ;  and  now  that  he 
is  dead  and  she  is  out,  I  don't  know  what  will  be  done,  I  don't 
understand  it  at  all." 

"  Has  she  no  friends,  no  relatives?  She  must  not  be  allowed 
to  wander  in  this  way,"  said  the  kind  girl,  with  the  tears  swim- 
ming in  her  eyes. 

"/  shall  always  be  her  friend,  Marian.  She  has  no  others  that 
I  know  of  now;  and  no  relative,  except  her  young  cousin, 
Thurston  Willcoxen,  who  has  been  abroad  at  a  German  Univer- 
sity these  five  years  past,  and  who,  in  event  of  Fanny's  death, 
would  inherit  her  property.  We  must  get  her  here,  if  possible. 
I  will  go  in  and  send  Jenny  after  her.  She  will  probably  over- 
take her  in  the  forest,  and  may  be  able  to  persuade  her  to  come 
back.  At  least,  I  shall  tell  Jenny  to  keep  her  in  sight,  until  she 
is  in  some  place  of  safety." 


188  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"Do,  dear  Edith!" 

"Are  you  not  coming?"  said  Edith,  as  she  led  her  little  girl 
towards  the  house. 

"In  one  moment,  dear;  I  wish  only  to  bind  up  this  morning- 
glory,  that  poor  Fanny  chanced  to  pull  down  as  she  ran  through." 

Edith  disappeared  in  the  cottage. 

Marian  stood  with  both  her  rosy  arms  raised,  in  the  act  of 
binding  up  the  vine,  that  with  its  wealth  of  splendid  azure- 
huod,  vase-shaped  flowers,  over-canopied  her  beautiful  head  like 
a  triumphal  arch.  She  stood  there,  as  I  said,  like  the  radiant, 
blooming  goddess  of  life  and  health,  summer  sunlight  and  blush- 
ing flowers. 

The  light  tramp  of  horse  feet  fell  upon  her  ear.  She  looked 
up,  and  with  surprise  lighting  her  dark-blue  eyes,  beheld  a  gen- 
tleman mounted  on  a  fine  black  Arabian  courser,  that  curvetted 
gracefully  and  capriciously  before  the  cottage  gate. 

Smilingly  the  gentleman  soothed  and  subdued  the  coquettish 
mood  of  his  willful  steed,  and  then  dismounted,  and  bowing 
with  matchless  grace  and  much  deference,  addressed  Marian. 

The  maiden  was  thinking  that  she  had  never  seen  a  gentleman 
with  a  presence  and  a  manner  so  graceful,  courteous  and  princely 
in  her  life.  He  was  a  tall,  finely  proportioned,  handsome  man, 
with  a  superb  head,  an  aquiline  profile,  and  fair  hair  and  fair 
complexion.  The  great  charm,  however,  was  in  the  broad, 
sunny  forehead,  in  the  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness,  in  the  low 
and  singularly  mellifluous  voice,  and  the  manner,  gentle  and 
graceful  as  any  woman's. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  name  is  Willcoxen,  young  lady,  and  I  have 
the  honor  of  addressing — ?" 

"  Miss  Mayfield,"  said  Marian. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  one  involuntary  gaxe 
of  enthusiastic  admiration  that  called  all  the  roses  out  in  full 
bloom  upon  the  maiden's  cheeks;  then  governing  himself,  he 
bent  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  and  said,  with  great  deference — 
"  You  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  have  taken  in  calling  hcrc^ 
Miss  Mayfield,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  in  search  of  au  un- 


WANDERING      FANNY.  180 

happy  young  relative,  who,  I  am  informed,  passed  here  not 
long  since." 

She  left  us  not  ten  minutes  ago,  sir,  much  against  our 
wishes.  My  sister  has  just  sent  a  servant  to  the  forest  in 
search  of  her,  to  bring  her  back,  if  possible.  Will  you  enter, 
nnd  wait  till  she  returns?" 

With  a  beaming  smile  and  graceful  bend,  and  in  the  same 
sweet  tones,  he  thanked  her,  and  declined  the  invitation.  Then 
he  remounted  his  horse,  and  bowing  deeply,  rode  off  in  the 
direction  Fanny  had  taken. 

And  Marian  remained  at  the  gate — lost — looking  after  his 
retreating  form.  Once  he  turned  his  head,  and  seeing  her  still 
standing  there,  he  bowed  lowly,  to  the  very  pommel  of  his  sad- 
dle, and  then  disappeared  in  the  forest.  And  the  roses  upon 
the  face  of  Marian  were  in  their  brightest  bloom  when  she 
re-entered  the  cottage.  The  neat  breakfast-table  was  standing 
iu  the  middle  of  the  floor,  covered  with  its  snow-white  cloth, 
and  adorned  with  its  pure  white  service — the  coffee-pot  and 
the  plate  of  rolls  and  the  dish  of  stewed  oysters  were  still  sit- 
ting upon  the  hearth.  And  as  Marian  helped  Edith  to  arrange 
these  upon  the  table,  the  latter  inquired, 

"  Who  was  that  speaking  to  you  at  the  gate,  Marian  ?" 

"  Who  but  Mr.  W illcoxen." 

"  What!  not  Thurston  Willcoxcn  !" 

"  The  very  same  !" 

"  You  astonish  me!     He  returned!" 

"  So  it  appears  !" 

"  Why,  when  did  he  get  back?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  1  He  never  volunteered  to  tell 
me,  and  I  certainly  was  not  at  liberty  to  inquire." 

"Well,  I  am  amazed!  What  was  the  object  of  his  visit 
here  ?" 

"  He  came  in  search  of  Fanny.     He  introduced  himself  by 

name,  and  inquired  after  her,  and  as  soon  as  he  received  the 

necessary  directions,  he  set  out  in  pursuit  of  her,  and  that  is 

all,"  said  Marian,  as  she  sat  down  to  the  table,  and  began  to 

12 


190  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

arrange  the  cups  to  pour  out  the  coffee,  for  of  this  little  labor 
also  the  kind  girl  habitually  relieved  Edith. 

After  a  little  silence,  Edith  said, 

"  Thurston  was  a  very  handsome  youth  when  he  left  the 
country — how  does  he  look  now,  Marian  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  girl,  hesitating  and  smiling,  "  I  do 
not  know  how  princes  ought  to  look,  or  how  they  do  look — no 
better,  really,  I  suppose,  than  humbler  men — yet  I  have  but 
one  word  to  convey  my  impression  of  this  gentleman's  appear- 
ance and  address — both  were — princely.  I  have  seen  no  one 
like  him  in  this  neighborhood — no  one  with  so  fine  an  expres- 
sion, or  so  fascinating  a  manner — a  manner,  what  shall  I  say — 
sfo  full  of  suave  and  stately  courtesy — of  proud  deference — in  a 
word,  Edith,  I  had  the  simplicity  to  gaze  after  the  gentleman's 
retreating  figure,  thinking  I  had  never  seen  any  one  ride  so 
admirably,  until  he  actually  turned  and  bowed,  at  which  I 
came  in  the  house,  a  little  flushed  at  having  betrayed  so  much 
rusticity." 

While  they  were  yet  talking,  Jenny  returned  from  her 
errand — alone. 

"  Did  you  see  Mrs.  Laurie?"  asked  Edith. 

"  Who  de  debbel  she,  honey  ?  Oh  !  you  'fers  to  poor,  dear, 
rnisfort'nate  Miss  Fanny!  Yes,  honey,  I  seen  she,"  said 
Jenny,  sitting  down,  and  taking  off  her  sun-bonnet,  and  making 
herself  comfortable.  "  Yes,  honey,  I  fell  in  'long  o'  her,  'jes 
on  de  edge  o'  de  wood.  Dar  she  was — had  hev  herse'f  right 
down  on  de  jewey  grass,  unncrneaf  o'  de  trees;  an'  I  went  to 
her,  an'  tried  to  'suade  her  to  git  up,  but  I  eouldn'  make  no 
'pression  on  her,  to  save  my  life !  she  didn' seem  to  hear  ino, 
nor  likewise  to  see  me  I  I  jes'  might  as  well  stan'  an'  'hirer  to 
a  dead  corpse  laid  out.  An'  I  was  jes'  batin'  'long  o'  myse'f 
whedder  I  shouldn'  pick  her  right  up  an'  heave  her  right  'cross 
my  shoulders  an'  tote  her  'long  home — when  sudden — a  patter- 
a-pat-pat!  comes  somet'n'  into  de  woods,  and  up  rid  Marse 
Rooster  Willfoxden  ! — an'  I  ranch  'spectin'  to  see  de  debbil  as 
he!  Well,  lie  rid  up,  he  did !  lib-  nny  In-v-my-lord  !  An' he 


WANDERING      FANNY.  191 

flings  hisse'f  offen  his  horse,  he  does,  and  he  goes  sof'  like  up 
to  Miss  Faiiny,  an'  he  draps  down  on  one  knee,  and  takes  her 
ban'  in  hissen,  an'  speaks  'spec'ful  an'  sof  like!  Oh!  you 
dunno  how  soP  I  no  mudder  to  her  sick  baby  no  soffer  an' 
sweeter — an'  calls  her  '  Fanny,  my  deares'  cousin  !'  'Deed  he  1 
ids  deares'  cousin,  an'  he  'suades  her  till  she  lets  him  HP  her 
up,  an'  sit  her  on  de  horse,  an'  he  takes  de  bridle  in  his  hau' 
an'  leads  de  horse,  and  'tends  to  her,  and  she  goes  'long  wid 
him  quiet  as  any  lamb  ! — Dar,  now  1  what  anybody  t'ink  o'  dat  1 
arter  me  spendin'  my  breaf  talkiu'  an'  talkin',  an'  argifyin'  an' 
argifyiu',  an'  not  be  able  to  do  a  singly  t'ing  long  o'  her?" 

This  was  certainly  a  day  of  arrivals  at  Old  Fields.  Usually 
-weeks  would  pass  without  any  one  passing  to  or  from  the  cot- 
tage, except  Marian,  whose  cheerful,  kindly,  social  Disposition, 
was  the  sole  connecting  link  between  the  cottage  and  the 
neighborhood  around  it.  But  this  day  seemed  to  be  an 
exception. 

While  yet  the  little  party  lingered  at  the  breakfast-table, 
Edith  looked  up,  and  saw  the  tall,  thin  figure  of  a  woman  in  a 
nankeen  riding-shirt,  and  a  nankeen  corded  sun-bonnet,  in  the 
act  of  dismounting  from  her  great,  raw-boned,  white  horse. 

"  If  there  isn't  Miss  Nancy  Skamp!"  exclaimed  Edith,  in  no 
very  hospitable  tone — "  and  1  wonder  how  she  can  leave  the 
post-office." 

"Oh!  this  is  not  mail  day!"  replied  Marian,  laughing. 
"  notwithstanding  which,  we  shall  have  news  enough."  And 
Marian  who,  for  her  part,  was  really  glad  to  see  the  old  lady, 
arose  to  meet  and  welcome  her. 

Miss  Nancy  was  little  changed;  the  same  tall,  thin,  narrow- 
chested,  stooping  figure — the  same  long,  fair,  freckled,  sharp  set 
face — the  same  prim  cap,  and  clean,  scant,  fadey  gown,  or  01113 
of  the  same  sort — made  up  her  personal  individuality.  Miss 
Nancy  now  had  charge  of  the  village  post-office;  and  her  early 
and  accurate  information  respecting  all  neighborhood  affairs, 
was  obtained,  it  was  whispered,  by  an  official  breach  of  trust: 
if  so,  however,  no  creature  except  Mi>s  Nancy,  her  black  boy, 


192  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

and  her  white  cat,  knew  it.  She  was  a  great  news  carrier,  it  is 
true,  yet  she  was  not  especially  addicted  to  scandal.  To  her, 
news  was  news,  whether  good  or  bad,  and  so  she  took  almost 
as  much  pleasure  in  exciting  the  wonder  of  her  listeners  by 
recounting*  the  good  action  or  good  fortune  of  her  neighbors  as 
the  reverse. 

And  so  after  having  dropped  her  riding-skirt,  and  given  that 
and  her  bonnet  to  Marian  to  carry  up  stairs,  and  seated  her- 
self in  the  chair  that  Edith  offered  her  at  the  table,  she  said, 
sipping  her  coffee,  and  glancing  between  the  white  curtains 
and  the  green  vines  of  the  open  window  out  upon  the  bay, 

"  You  have  the  sweetest  place,  and  the  finest  sea  view  here, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Shields  1  but  that  is  not  what  I  was  a-going  to  say. 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  I  hadn't  hearn  from  you  so  long, 
that  I  thought  I  must  take  an  airly  ride  this  morning,  and 
spend  the  day  with  you.  And  I  thought  you'd  like  to  hear 
about  your  old  partner  at  the  dancing-school,  young  Mr.  Thurs- 
tou  Willcoxen,  a-coming  back — la,  yes  1  to  be  sure !  we  had 
almost  all  of  us  forgotten  him,  leastwise  /  had.  And  then, 
Miss  Marian,"  she  said,  as  our  blooming  girl  returned  to  her 
place  at  the  table,  I  just  thought  I  would  bring  over  that  mus- 
lin for  the  collars  and  caps,  you  were  so  good  as  to  say  you'd 
make  for  me." 

"Yes,  I  am  glad  you  brought  them,  Miss  Nancy,"  said 
Marian,  in  her  cheerful  tone,  as  she  helped  herself  to  another 
roll. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  busy  now,  my  dear." 

"Oh!  I'm  always  busy,  thank  Heaven  1  but  that  makes  no 
difference,  Miss  Nancy;  I  shall  find  time  to  finish  your  work 
this  week  and  next." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  good  of  you,  Miss  Marian,  to  sew  for 
me  for  nothing ;  when — " 

"Oh,  pray,  don't  speak  of  it,  Miss  Nancy." 

"  But  indeed,  my  dear,  I  must  say  I  never  saw  anybody  like 
you !  if  anybody's  too  old  to  sew,  and  too  poor  to  put  it  out, 
it  is  '  Miss  Marian'  who  will  do  it  for  kindness ;  and  if  any- 


WANDERING      FANNY.  19H 

body  is  sick,  it  is  '  Miss  Marian'  who  is  sent  for  to  nurse  them ; 
and  if  any  poor  negro,  or  ignorant  white  person,  has  friends  off 
at  a  distance,  they  want  to  hear  from,  it  is  '  Miss  Marian'  who 
writes  all  their  letters!" 

"But,  Miss  Nancy,  what  of  it?  It  is  a  real  happiness  to 
me  !  and  I  think  it  is  right  to  find  as  well  as  to  make  all  the 
happiness  we  can  in  this  world." 

"  But,  my  dear,  I  don't  know  how  you  have  the  time,  I  don't 
indeed.  Your  day  must  be  forty-eight  hours  long,  and  your 
week  fourteen  days  !" 

Marian  laughed. 

"  We  can  always  find  time  for  a  sacred  duty,  Miss  Nancy, 
and  I  do  think  to  nurse  the  sick,  and  sew  for  the  old  and  blind, 
and  to  write  for  those  who  cannot  write  for  themselves,  are  sa- 
cred duties.'1'1 

"Indeed  I  often  try  to  remember  what  the  neighborhood  did 
before  you  came  into  it,  and  I  wonder  what  we  should  all  do  if 
you  were  to  be  taken  away  !" 

Marian  laughed  again. 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  be  taken  away,  Miss  Nancy,  I  expect 
to  grow  gray  at  Old  Field  Cottage,  and  if  I  were  to  die,  or 
depart,  no  doubt  Heaven  would  provide  you  with  a  sub- 
stitute." 

"  I  don't  know  where  one  would  be  got  then,  I'm  sure !  For 
I  know  everybody  thinks  there's  not  your  equal  to  be  found. 
And  as  for  me,  Miss  Marian,  I  should  really  think  you  were  a 
saint  if  you  didn't  laugh  so  much." 

At  this  Marian  laughed  more — laughed  till  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes. 

"Do  eat  your  breakfast,  Miss  Nancy,  and  let  me  eat  mine— 
for,  if  you  will  compliment  me  so  much,  I  shall  nave  to  compli- 
ment back  again,  and  then  my  coffee  will  get  coid." 

Jenny,  who  stood  at  the  fire,  stewing  fresh  oysters,  and  listen- 
ing to  the  talk,  now  looked  askant  over  her  shoulder,  and 
grumbled,  in  audibly, 

"Why,  in  de  iuimy's  name,  don't  de  ole  creeter  let  her  wit- 


104  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

tels  stop  her  mouth,  for  ebery  precious  word  as  conies  out'n  it 
is  'ceit.  Keepiii'  de  table  stanin'  in  de  middle  o'  de  floor  till 
nigh  'pon  nine  o'clock,  an'  me  wid  my  work  to  do  !" 

When  they  arose  from  breakfast,  and  the  room  was  tidied  up, 
and  Edith,  and  Marian,  and  their  guest,  were  seated  at  their 
work,  with  all  the  cottage  windows  open  to  admit  the  fresh  and 
fragrant  air,  and  the  rural  landscape  on  one  side,  and  the  sea 
view  on  the  other,  and  while  little  Miriam  sat  at  their  feet  dress- 
ing a  nun  doll,  and  old  Jenny  betook  herself  to  the  garden  to 
gather  vegetables  for  the  day,  Miss  Nancy  opened  her  budget, 
and  gave  them  all  the  news  of  the  month.  But  in  that  which 
concerned  Thurston  Willcoxen  alone  was  Edith  interested,  and 
of  him  she  learned  the  following  facts  :  Of  the  five  years  which 
Mr.  Willcoxen  had  been  absent  in  the  eastern  hemisphere,  three 
had  been  spent  at  the  German  University,  where  he  graduated 
with  the  highest  honors ;  eighteen  months  had  been  passed  in 
travel  through  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa ;  and  the  last  year  had 
been  spent  in  the  best  circles  in  the  city  of  Paris.  He  had  been 
back  to  his  native  place  about  three  weeks.  Since  the  death  of 
Fanny  Laurie's  old  guardian,  the  judge  of  the  orphans'  court  had 
Appointed  him  sole  trustee  of  her  property,  and  guardian  of  her 
person.  As  soon  as  he  had  received  this  power,  he  had  gone  to 
the  asylum,  where  the  poor  creature  was  confined,  and  hearing 
her  pronounced  incurable,  though  harmless,  he  had  set  her  at 
liberty,  brought  her  home  to  his  own  house,  and  had  hired  a 
skillful,  attentive  nurse  to  wait  upon  her. 

"And  you  never  saw  such  kindness  and  compassion,  Miss 
Marian,  except  in  yourself.  I  do  declare  to  you,  that  his  man- 
ner to  that  poor  unfortunate,  is  as  delicate  and  reverential  and 
devoted  as  if  she  were  the  most  accomplished  and  enviable  lady 
in  the  land,  and  more  so,  Miss  Marian,  more  so  !" 

"  I  can  well  believe  it !  He  looks  like  that !"  said  the  beau- 
tiful girl,  her  face  flushing  and  her  eyes  filling  with  generous 
sympathy.  But  Marian  was  rather  averse  to  sentimentality,  so 
dashing  the  sparkling  drops  from  her  blushing  cheeks,  she 
looked  up  and  said,  "Miss  Xaucy,  we  are  going  to  have 


THE      FOREST      FAIftY.  195 

thickens  for  dinner.    How  do  you  like  them  cooked?     It  dou't 
mutter  a  bit  to  Edith  aud  me." 

"Stewed  then,  if  you  please,  Miss  Marian!  or  stop — no — I 
ihink  baked  in  a  pie!" 


CHAPTER    XT. 

THE       FOREST       FAIRY. 

"  I>ii]>ing  spirits  light  as  air! 

Duneing  heart  uutouchod  V>y  care  I 
Sparkling  eye  and  laughing  brow! 
Aud  mirthful  cheek  of  joyous  glow!" 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  spent  by  Miss  Nancy 
Skamp  at  Old  Field  Cottage,  the  family  at  Luckenough  were 
assembled  in  that  broad,  central  passage,  their  favorite  resort  in 
warm  weather. 

Five  years  had  made  very  little  alteration  here,  excepting  in 
the  case  of  Jacquelina,  who  had  grown  up  to  be  the  most  en- 
chanting sprite  that  ever  bewitched  the  hearts,  or  turned  the 
heads  of  men.  She  was  petite,  slight,  agile,  graceful ;  clustering 
curls  of  shining  gold  encircled  a  round,  white  forehead,  laugh- 
ing in  light ;  springs  under  springs  of  fun  and  frolic  sparkled 
up  from  the  bright,  blue  eyes,  whose  flashing  light  flew  bird- 
like  everywhere,  but  rested  nowhere.  She  seemed  even  less 
human  and  irresponsible  than  when  a  child — verily  a  being  of 
the  air,  a  fairy,  without  human  thoughtfulness,  or  sympathy,  or 
affections  !  She  only  seemed  so — under  all  that  fay-like  levity 
there  was  a  heart.  Poor  heart !  little  food  or  cultivation  had 
it  had  in  all  its  life. 

For  who  had  been  Jacquelina's  educators  ? 

First,  there  was  the  Commodore,  with  his  alternations  of 
blustering  wrath  and  foolish  fondness,  giving  way  to  his  auger. 


196  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

or  indulging  his  love,  without  the  slightest  regard  to  the  effect 
produced  upon  his  young  ward — too  often  abusing  her  for 
something  really  admirable  in  her  nature — and  full  as  frequently 
praising  her  for  something  proportionately  reprehensible  in  her 
conduct. 

Next,  there  was  the  dark,  and  solemn,  and  fanatical  Dr. 
Grimshaw,  her  destined  bridegroom,  who  really  and  truly  loved 
the  child  to  fatuity,  and  conscientiously  did  the  very  best  he 
could  for  her  mental  and  moral  welfare,  according  to  his  light. 
Alas !  "  when  the  light  that  is  in  one  is  darkness,  how  great  is 
that  darkness !"  Jacquelina  rewarded  his  serious  efforts  with 
laughter,  and  flattered  him  with  the  pet  names  of  Hobgoblin, 
Ghoul,  Gnome,  Ogre,  &c.  Yet  she  did  not  dislike  her  solemn 
suitor — she  never  had  taken  the  matter  so  seriously  as  that! 
And  he  on  his  part  bore  the  eccentricities  of  the  elf  with  match- 
less patience,  for  he  loved  her,  as  I  said,  to  fatuity — doted  on 
her  with  a  passion  that  increased  with  ripening  years,  and  of 
late  consumed  him  like  a  fever. 

And  then  there  was  her  mother,  last  named  because,  what- 
ever she  should  have  been,  she  really  was  the  least  important 
of  Jacquelina's  teachers.  Fear  was  the  key-note  of  Mrs. 
L'Oiseau's  character — the  key-stone  in  the  arch  of  her  religions 
faith — she  feared  everything — the  opinion  of  the  world,  the  un- 
faithfulness of  friends,  changes  in  the  weather,  reverses  of  for- 
tune, pain,  sickness,  sorrow,  want,  labor!  All  the  evils  of  life 
were  exaggerated  and  made  imminent  by  that  one  principle  in 
her  character,  and  worse  than  all,  poor  creature,  her  soul  was 
filled,  not  with  the  love  of  the  Father,  but  with  the  fear  of  the 
Angry  God !  the  Deus  In  of  her  tremendous  dread !  Her 
worldly  wisdom  was  of  the  same  character,  governed  by  the 
same  motives,  fear  and  self-interest.  "  Whatever  you  do,  my 
dear,  you  must  please  your  uncle  and  Doctor  Grimshaw — never 
mind  your  aunty — she  hasn't  much  in  her  own  right  to  leave  to 
anybody,  and  she  is  wasting  it  all  on  Edith.  But  your  uncle, 
my  dear;  you  must  please  your  uncle,  and  win  Dr.  Grimshaw. 
loo,  for  he  never  will  leave  you  Luekenough,  unless  you  are  to 


THE      FOREST      FAIRT.  107 

bo  Dr.  Grirn.shaw's  wife,  and  if  he  don't,  what  should  \ve  do ! 
Be  homeless  beggars  for  the  rest  of  our  lives !" 

Now  the  time  had  not  yet  come  for  this  proposed  marriage 
to  shock  the  merry  maiden.  She  did  not  realize  what  was  in- 
tended— the  words  were  meaningless  to  her,  worn  out  with  con- 
stant use ;  she  had  heard  them  ever  since  she  could  remember, 
ami  she  paid  no  attention  to  them;  so  to  speak,  "they  went 
in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other." 

She  was  "  o\ver  young  to  marry  yet." 

So  thought  not  the  Commodore ;  for  a  year  past,  since  his 
niece  had  attained  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  had  been  worrying 
himself  and  the  elders  of  the  family  to  have  the  marriage  so- 
lemnized, "before  the  little  devil  shall  have  time  to  get  some 
other  notion  into  her  erratic  head,"  he  said.  All  were  opposed 
to  him,  holding  over  his  head  the  only  rod  he  dreaded,  the 
opinion  of  the  world. 

"  What  would  people  say  if  you  were  to  marry  your  niece  of 
fourteen  to  a  man  of  thirty-four  ?"  they  urged. 

"  But,  I  tell  you,  young  men  are  beginning  to  pay  attention 
to  her  now,  and  I  can't  take  her  to  church  that  some  jackanapes 
don't  come  capering  around  her,  and  the  minx  will  get  some 
whim  in  her  head  like  Edith  did,  I  know  she  will!  Just  see 
how  Edith  disappointed  me!  ungrateful  huzzy  !  after  my  bring- 
ing her  up  and  educating  her,  for  her  to  do  so !  While,  if  she 
had  married  Grim'  when  I  wanted  her  to  do  it,  by  this  time  Pd 
have  had  my  grandchil — !  I  mean  nieces  and  nephews  climb- 
ing about  my  knees.  But  by — !  I  wont  be  frustrated  this 
time !" 

And  so  Jacquelina  was  kept  more  secluded  than  ever.  Se- 
cluded from  society,  but  not  from  nature.  The  forest  became 
her  haunt.  And  a  chance  traveler  passing  through  it,  and 
meeting  her  fay-like  form,  might  well  suppose  he  was  deceived 
with  the  vision  of  a  wood-nymph, 

The  effervescent  spirits  of  the  elf  had  to  expend  themselves 
in  the  same  way.  As  a  child  she  had  ever  been  as  remarkable 
for  surprising  feats  of  agility  as  for  fun,  frolic,  mischief,  and 
16* 


198  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

diablerie.  And  every  one  of  these  traits  augmented  with  her 
urowth.  Feats  of  agility  became  a  passion  with  her — her  airy 
spirit  seemed  only  to  find  its  full  freedom  in  rapid  motion,  in 
daring  flights,  vin  difficult  achievements,  and  in  hair-breadth 
'scapes.  Everything  that  she  read  of  in  that  way,  which  could 
possibly  be  imitated,  was  attempted.  She  had  her  bows  and 
arrows,  and  by  original  fitness,  as  well  as  by  constant  practice, 
she  became  an  excellent  markswoman — she  had  her  well-trained 
horse,  and  her  vaulting  bars,  and  made  nothing  of  flying  over  a 
high  fence  or  a  wide  ditch.  But  her  last  whim  was  the  most 
eccentric  of  all.  She  had  her  lance.  And  her  favorite  pastime 
was  to  have  a  small  ring  suspended  from  a  cross  beam,  and 
while  riding  at  full  speed,  with  her  light  lance  balanced  in  her 
hand,  to  catch  this  ring  and  bear  it  off  upon  the  point  of  that 
lance.  In  feats  of  agility  alone  she  excelled,  not  in  those  of 
strength — that  airy,  fragile  form  was  well  fitted  for  swiftness 
and  sureness  of  motion,  yet  not  for  muscular  force.  Her  uncle 
and  Grim'  indulged  her  in  all  these  frolics — her  uncle  in  great 
delight — Grim',  under  the  protest,  that  they  were  unworthy  of 
an  immortal  being  with  eternity  to  prepare  for. 

In  these  five  past  years,  Cloudesley  had  been  home  once — 
namely,  at  the  end  of  the  stated  three  years.  He  had  been  re- 
ceived with  unbounded  joy  by  his  child-friend  ;  had  brought  her 
the  out-grown  suit  of  uniform ;  had  spent  several  months  at 
Luckenough,  and  renewed  his  old  delightful  intimacy  with  its 
little  heiress  presumptive,  and  at  length  had  gone  to  sea  again 
for  another  three  years'  voyage.  And  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Jacquelina  had  found  the  second  parting  more  grievous  than 
the  first.  And  this  time  Cloudesley  had  fully  shared  her  sor- 
row. He  had  been  absent  a  year,  when,  upon  this  evening,  we 
fine  the  family  assembled  in  the  spacious  passage. 

1  said  that  with  the  exception  of  Jacquelina,  little  change  had 
passed  over  the  members  of  the  household.  Mary  L'Oiseau 
was  almost  precisely  the  same. 

]\lrs.  Waugh  had  increased  in  flesh  to  such  a  degree  as  made 
it  rather  heavy  work  for  her  to  go  up  and  down  stairs,  a  task 
only  to  be  accomplished  with  much  panting  and  blowing. 


THE      FOREST      FilRT.  1 0'J 

The  Commodore  was  very  much  the  same  in  aspect  as  when 
first  presented  to  the  reader.  But  he  was  suffering  from  the 
gout,  that  frequently  confined  him  to  his  room.  And  this  afflic- 
tion, so  far  from  disciplining  his  character  or  improving  his 
temper,  made  him  twice  the  tyrant  that  he  was  before.  And 
Henrietta,  really  affected  by  his  sufferings,  not  only  never  her- 
self crossed  his  humor,  but  never  permitted  any  one  else  to  do 
BO.  She  compelled  them  to  submit  with — "  Remember  your 
master's  suffering  leg,  you  thoughtless  wretches  you!"  to  the 
house  servants.  And  to  Jacqueiiua,  "Oh!  my  love!  just  re- 
member  your  poor  uncle's  poor,  dear  leg,  and  put  up  with  his 
little  ways  !"  His  little  ways  !  I  will  tell  you  what  they  were  ! 
— I>H.P  of  his  little  ways  was — when  confined  to  his  room — to 
pound  upon  the  floor,  with  his  crutch,  until  three  or  four  ser- 
vants all  started  to  run  to  him  at  once — notwithstanding  the 
imminent  danger  of  having  the  said  crutch  hurled  at  their  heads 
as  soon  as  they  should  appear  at  his  door,  or  laid  vigorously 
over  their  backs  as  soon  as  they  should  get  within  arm's  length 
of  him,  for  it  was  impossible  to  know  exactly  who  was  wanted, 
and  if  the  right  one  did  not  come  "  woe  betide  him"  when  he 
did.  Never  had  that  leg,  in  the  days  that  in  company  with  its 
fellow  limb,  it  had  stamped  up  and  down  the  hall,  kicking  the 
men  and  boys,  and  propelling  the  dogs  and  cats  through  the 
door,  and  making  the  old  beams  and  sleepers  tremble  with  sym- 
pathetic fear — been  so  much  the  dread  of  delinquents  as  now 
that  it  was  swathed  in  bandages,  and  laid  up  on  pillows.  That 
leg  was  a  sort  of  marshal's  baton  held  up  in  terrorem  over  the 
whole  family — a  sceptre  of  iron,  before  which  all  must  bend. 
Until  finally  Jacquelina  got  very  tired  of  the  bother,  rebelled, 
and  vowed  that  she,  for  one,  was  not  going  to  be  walked  over 
by  her  uncle's  leg  any  longer!  there  ! 

On  this  especial  evening,  the  old  sailor  was  so  much  better 
as  to  be  able  to  come  down  into  the  hall  and  lie  upon  the 
settee,  that  before-mentioned  green,  wooden  settee  that  stood 
against  the  wall  in  a  line  with  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Henrietta 
gat  upon  one  end  of  it,  and  here  he  lay  at  full  length,  with  his 


200  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

nead  on  the  good  woman's  lap.  They  were  discussing  the  one 
exciting  topic  of  the  neighborhood,  the  return '  of  Thurston 
Willcoxen. 

"If  he  had  been  guided  by  me,"  said  the  Commodore,  "he 
never  would  have  gone  into  foreign  parts  first.  I  think  Ame- 
rica, the  United  States  and  territories  of  North  America,  quite 
extensive  enough  for  any  young  man's  ambition  !" 

"  Was  it  extensive  enough  for  yours,  uncle,  when  you  went 
away  for  twenty  years  ?" 

"  Hush,  Magpie  I  You  never  open  your  lips  that  some  sauce 
don't  come  out  of  them!" 

"  Smice-piguante,  uncle  ?" 

"  No,  Minx!  that  goes  in  fast  enough  in  company  with  rock- 
fish  !" 

"  Now,  I  leave  it  to  any  one  who  knows  me  if  /  am  a  gour- 
mand! At  least  I  have  not  gout  enough  to  get  the  gout !" 

"Where  is  my  crutch?  or  the  boot  jack?  Is  there  nothing 
to  throw  at  her  ?" 

"  Can't  you  throw  a  repartee,  uncle  ?" 

"  Silence,  huzzy  !     Will  nobody  take  that  girl  off  my  back?" 

"Yes,  dear  uncle,  any  of  the  young  gentlemen  about  Bene- 
dict will  gladly  do  so  !" 

"  Set  fire  to  the  young  men  about  13 !" 

"Well,  then,  Thurston  Willcoxen  will!" 

"  Devil  fly  away  with  Thurston  Willcoxen  !  He  and  all  the 
rest  of  them  put  together  are  not  worth  Grim's  little  finger!" 

"Ah!  but,  uncle,  Grim'  is  so  emphatically  grim!" 

"  He  is  a  grave,  self-governed  man,  as  every  instructor  of 
youth  should  be,  and  I  wish  you  to  love  and  respect  him." 

"  But  I  hate  schoolmasters !" 

"But  he  is  not  a  schoolmaster,  Hornet!  he  is  a  professor." 

"  Worse  and  worse !  professors  are  the  superlative  degree'  of 
schoolmasters,  and  I  perfectly  loathe,  abhor,  and  abominate 
professors!" 

"  Yes,  but  Wasp-tongue !  he  is  a  very  fine  fellow,  besides 
being  my  friend  /" 


THE      FOREST      F4IRY.  201 

"Now,  that  is  a  most  reasonable  reason  for  liking  him  I" 

"  Yes,  but  if  I  make  you  marry  him — " 

"  Make — me — marry — HIM  ! !" 

"  Yes,  I  say  if  I  do,  I'll  give  you  Luckenough  into  the  bar- 
gain !" 

"  Would  you?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Why,  uncle!  that  would  be 
heaping  wrong  upon  wrong!  Why,  uncle!  I  don't  like  Luck- 
enough  any  better  than  I  do  the  professor !  I  would  no  more 
live  in  it  than  I  would  live  with  him!  And  I  wouldn't  take 
the  haunted  old  place  in  fee-simple,  much  less  with  the  incum- 
brance  of  that  Ghoul !" 

"  Ghoul !  Have  you  eyes  in  your  head  ?  Do  you  recognise 
a  handsome  man  when  you  see  one  ?" 

"Is  Grim'  handsome,  uncle?  I  really  did  not  know  it! 
However,  people's  tastes  vary  in  the  matter  of  beauty — now  my 
taste  differs  totally  from  yours.  I  never  could  think  your  pet 
Ogre  handsome.  Thurston  Willcoxen  is  my  ideal  of  manly 
beauty  !" 

"  There  it  is  again  !  Girls  are  the  most  infernal  calamity  a 
man  can  be  cursed  with  1  Now  I  suppose  you'll  go  making 
yourself  a  fool  about  him  I" 

"Make  myself  a.  fool?  No  indeed,  uncle!  One  is  enough 
of  that  class  in  any  family  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Pepperpod  ?" 

"Nothing,  sir,"  said  Jacquelina,  with  much  meekness. 

"  Well  1  whatever  you  mean,  Minx,  I  warn  you  not  to  full  in 
love  with  Thurston  Willcoxen  because  he  is  handsome  !  For 
Grim,  is  just  as  handsome  as  he  is,  and  handsomer,  too,  besides 
being  my  friend." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  we  were  to  choose  people  by  their  good 
looks,  and  I  am  very  sure,  my  dear  aunty,  here,  never  chose 
her  husband  for  his  beauty." 

"  Well,  if  she  didn't,  Saucebox,  she  chose  him  for  his  bravery, 
which  is  a  better  quality,  I  reckon  !" 

"Bravery?  Now,  uncle,  you  know  I  think  the  existence  of 
that  attribute  in  some  people  wants  proof!  I  for  one,  always 


202  THE      MISSING      B1HDE. 

considered  it  traditionary  and  fabulous  as  far  as  you  were  con- 
cerned, or  at  least  only  existing  and  active  -while  drums  were 
beating  and  flags  flying,  and  bullets  whizzing,  and  blows  falling 
in  all  directions,  and  the  demon  to  pay  generally  !  and  the  only 
alternative  left  was  to  flght  or  fall !  /  never  saw  much  of  the 
fire-eater  about  you,  dear  uncle  !  Besides,  how  came  that  bul- 
let under  your  shoulder  blade  ?  You  must  have  got  that  when 
you  were  running  away  I" 

"  I  didn't,  you  vixen  !  I  got  it  on  board  the  Bon  Hommo 
Richard  in  the  thickest  of  the  tight!  My  pistols  were  spent! 
My  sword  was  broken  !  And  I  had  closed  with  the  foeman, 
hand  to  hand  I  foot  to  foot !  breast  to  breast !  in  a  death-grip  ! 
We  were  each  trying  to  cast  the  other  off  the  deck  and  over- 
board !  And  we  should  probably  have  gone  overboard  toge- 
ther and  been  drowned  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  like  a  pair 
of  ardent  and  suicidal  lovers,  had  not  that  chance  bullet  struck 
me,  and  made  this  wound,  for  which  Old  Hen  will  get  a  pension 
some  of  these  days  when  it  kills  me  1" 

"  A  penance,  uncle  !  Say  a  penance  !  I  like  Aunt  Jenny's 
name  for  it  best !" 

"  Bother  !  I  don't  want  to  bandy  nonsense  with  you — I  want 
to  talk  sensibly.  And  now  listen  I  I  do  not  wish  my  niece  to 
let  her  thoughts  wander  after  any  of  these  hair-brained  fops,  PC 
entirely  beneath  her  notice!  For  I  intend  that  she  shall  be  the 
wife  of  a  man  of  character  and  responsibility — of  years,  and 
weight  and  substance  1" 

"  Lord  !  what  a  pity  it  is  you  can't  marry  me  yourself,  uncle! 
You  are  the  heaviest  and  oldest  man  in  the  neighborhood  ! 
Say,  wouldn't  you  like  to  marry  me  yourself,  uncle  ?" 

"I'd  like  to  brain  you!"  ejaculated  the  old  soldier,  feeling 
about  and  finding  nothing  but  his  tobacco-box,  he  sent  it  fly- 
ing at  her.  Jacquelina  dodged,  and  ran  away  laughing. 

"  Come  back  here,  Minx  !  I  want  to  talk  to  you !"  he  said. 

"  Disarm  him,  aunty  !  take  away  his  pipe,  and  his  spectacles, 
and  his  snuff-box,  and  his  pocket-book,  (I  don't  think  he  wil: 
throw  his  watch  at  me !)  and  everything  he  can  make  a  missile 
oil" 


THE      FOREST      FAIRY.  203 

"  Come  Lack  here,  you  little  imp!  Don't  you  see  I've  got 
nothing?" 

Jacquelina  came  back,  still  laughing,  and  took  her  seat  at 
her  uncle's  feet. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  you  little  aggravation !  Have  you 
no  ambition  ?  Shouldn't  yon  like  to  be  the  wife  of  a  great 
man  ?  Now,  Grim'  is  already  beginning  to  distinguish  him- 
self. He  will  be  a  great  man  yet  1" 

"  Yes  !  if  he grows  stout  with  years  !  He  'stands  high  '  in  the 
community  now !" 

"  You  look  as  if  you  were  making  fun  and  I  believe  you  are! 
I  tell  you,  Professor  Grimshaw  is  destined  to  make  his  mark  in 
the  world  I" 

"  Of  course,  if  he  leaves  his  tracks  in  the  mud." 

"  Henrietta !— I'll  be  shot  if  I  stand  this  P 

"  No !  certainly  not !  don't  try,  uncle !  it  might  hurt  your 
poor  leg!" 

"  Oh  !  Oh,  Lord  !  What  a  visitation  !  What  a  judgment ! 
Whatever  shall  I  do  with  this — this — this — .  Don't  you  ksow, 
you  minx,  that  Doctor  Grimshaw  will  most  probably  be  the 

next  President  of  College  ?  And  have  yon  no  sense  of 

the  dignity  that  would  attach  to  you  as  the  wife  of  so  dis- 
tinguished a  man  ?" 

Jacqudina  put  her  finger  upon  her  chin,  ai>d  cast  her  eyes 
down  in  demure  reflection — then  she  soberly  arose,  walked  up 
to  the  hat-rack,  and  standing  before  the  little  glass  inserted 
there,  deliberately  contemplated  herself  for  several  minutes. 
Then  as  soberly  she  walked  back  and  resumed  her  seat,  saying, 

"  It  wont  do,  uncie  !     I  don't  look  like  it  1  no,  not  one  bit !" 

"  Don't  be  too  humble,  Miss  L'Oiseau  1  For  whether  yon 
really  deserve  it  or  not,  you  will  have  that  '  greatness  thrust' 
apon  you !" 

"  Then,  indeed,  I  shall  cast  it  off  again." 

"Indeed,  you  shall  not!" 

"  Try  me  !     Dare  to  try  me  !" 

Up  to  this  time  the  b-iiit' :!'i"g  conflict  had  been  carried  on 


204  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

good-lmmoredly,  notwithstanding  the  sancincss  of  Jacquelina's 
retorts,  but  now  there  was  danger  of  the  antagonists  getting 
out  of  temper,  and  the  sham  quarrel  becoming  a  real  one,  when 
Mrs.  Waugh  interfered  by  changing  the  subject. 

They  lingered  long  in  the  hall  that  evening,  longer  than 
usual.  Was  it  with  any  prophetic  feeling  that  this  would  be 
the  very  last  evening  they  would  ever  sit  in  that  old  passage 
way  again  ? 

That  very  night  the  old  mansion,  that  had  withstood  the 
storms  of  more  than  two  hundred  winters,  was  burned  to  the 
ground ! 

The  lire  broke  out  in  the  kitchen.  Upon  that  fatal  evening 
it  had  been  left  to  Stupid  to  cover  up  the  brands  on  the  kitchen 
hearth.  No  one  could  surmise  how  he  contrived  to  draw  on 
the  calamity.  It  is  true  that  Maria,  who  was  waiting  on  her 
master  at  his  bedside,  had  mockingly  told  "  Stupe"  to  be  sure 
and  leave  a  coal  sticking  to  the  broom  when  he  swept  the  ashes 
up.  But  could  Stupe  have  been  such  a  fool  as  to  take  her  at 
her  word  ?  Maria  was  not  certain,  and  upon  the  whole,  she 
thought  it  best  not  to  investigate  the  matter  too  closely.  For 
indeed,  Stupe  had  become  most  lamentably  stupid  since  his 
master's  accession  of  illness  and  ill-temper  had  kept  him  in  a 
state  of  perpetual  panic,  in  fact  since  the  reign  of  the  leg  had 
commenced. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  upon  the  evening  of  the  fire,  Jacquelina 
had  gone  to  her  room — she  had  an  apartment  to  herself  no\\ — 
and  feeling  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  some  little  uneasiness 
about  her  uncle's  "whim"  of  wedding  her  to  Grim',  she  had 
walked  about  the  floor  for  sometime  in  much  restlessness  of 
mind  and  body;  then  she  went  to  a  wardrobe,  and  took  out 
Cloudy's  treasured  first  uniform,  and  held  it  up  before  her. 
How  small  it  looked  now;  why  it  was  scarcely  too  large  for 
herself!  And  how  much  Cloudy  had  outgrown  it!  It  had 
fitted  him  nicely  at  sixteen,  now  he  was  twenty-one,  and  in  two 
years  more  he  would  be  home  again!  Smiling  to  herself,  and 
tossing  her  charming  head,  as  at  some  invisible  foe,  she  said, 

"  Yes,  indeed  !     I  should  so  like  to  see  them  do  It  I" 


THE      FOREST      FAIRY.  205 

She  pressed  the  cloth  up  to  her  face,  and  put  it  away,  and, 
still  smiling  to  herself,  retired  to  rest,  to  dream  of  her  clear 
playmate. 

She  dreamed  of  being  in  his  ship  on  the  open  sea,  tlie  scene 
idealized  to  supernal  beauty  and  sublimity,  as  all  such  scenes 
are  in  dreams ;  and  then  she  thought  the  ship  took  fire,  and 
saw,  and  heard,  and  felt  the  great  panic  and  horror  that  ensued. 

She  woke  in  a  terrible  fright.  A  part  of  her  dream  was  true ! 
Her  chamber  was  filled  with  smoke,  and  the  house  was  chaotic 
with  noise  and  confusion,  and  resounded  with  cries  of  "Fire! 
Fire !"  everywhere.  What  happened  next  passed  with  the 
swiftness  of  lightning.  She  jumped  out  of  bed,  seized  a  wool- 
len shawl,  and  wrapped  it  around  her  head,  and  even  in  that 
imminent  danger  not  forgetting  her  most  cherished  treasure, 
Cloudy's  suit  of  uniform,  snatched  it  from  the  wardrobe  and 
fled  out  of  the  room.  Her  swift  and  dipping  motion  that  had 
gained  her  the  name  of  "Lapwing,"  now  served  her  well — 
shooting  her  bright  head  forward  and  downward,  she  fled 
through  all  the  passages,  and  down  all  the  stairs,  and  out  by 
the  great  hall,  that  was  all  in  flames,  until  she  reached  the  lawn, 
where  the  panic-stricken  and  nearly  idiotic  household  were  as- 
sembled, weeping,  moaning  and  wringing  their  hands,  while 
they  gazed  upon  the  work  of  destruction  before  them  in  im- 
potent despair  I 

Jacquelina  looked  all  around  upon  the  group,  each  figure  of 
which  glared  redly  in  the  light  of  the  flames.  All  were  present 
• — all  but  the  Commodore!  Where  could  the  Commodore  be? 

Jacquelina  ran  through  the  crowd  looking  for  him  in  all  di- 
rections. He  was  nowhere  visible,  though  the  whole  area  was 
lighted  up,  even  to  the  edge  of  the  forest,  every  tree  and  branch 
aud  twig  and  leaf  of  which  was  distinctly  revealed  in  the  strong 
red  glare. 

"Where  is  uncle?  Oh!  where  is  uncle?"  she  exclaimed, 
running  wildly  about,  and  finally  going  up  to  Mrs.  Waugli, 
who,  in  her  uightcluthes,  stood  looking  the  statue  of  con- 
sternation ! 

13 


206  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Jacquelina  shook  her  fat  arm. 

"Aunty!  aunty!  Where  is  uncle?  Are  you  bewitched? 
Where  is  uncle  ?" 

"  Where  ?  Here,  somewhere.  I  saw  him  run  out  before 
me." 

"!N"o,  you  didn't!  you  mistook  somebody  else  for  him.  Oh, 
my  Lord  !  he  is  in  the  burning  house ! — he  is  in  the  house  !" 

"Oh,  he  is  in  the  house !  he  is  in  the  house!"  echoed  Hen- 
rietta, now  roused  from  her  panic,  and  wringing  her  hands  in 
the  most  acute  distress.  "  Oh !  will  nobody  save  him  !  will 
nobody  save  him !" 

It  was  too  late !  Commodore  Waugh  was  in  the  burning 
mansion,  in  his  bedchamber,  near  the  top  of  the  house,  fast 
asleep ! 

"  Good  heaven  !  will  no  one  attempt  to  save  him  ?"  screamed 
Henrietta,  running  wildly  from  one  to  the  other. 

They  all  gazed  on  each  other,  and  then  in  consternation  upon 
the  burning  building,  every  window  of  which  was  belching 
flame,  while  the  sound  of  some  falling  rafter,  or  the  explosion 
of  some  combustible  substance  was  continually  heard !  To 
venture  into  that  blazing  house,  with  its  sinking  roof  and  falling 
rafters,  seemed  certain  death. 

"  Oh  !  my  God  !  my  God  !  will  none  even  try  to  save  him?" 
cried  Henrietta,  wringing  her  hands  iu  extreme  anguish. 

Suddenly — 

"  Pray  forme,  aunty!"  exclaimed  Jacquelina,  and  she  darted 
like  a  bird  towards  the  house,  into  the  passage,  and  seemed  lost 
in  the  smoke  and  flame  ! 

Wrapping  the  woollen  shawl  closely  about  her,  and  keeping 
near  the  floor,  she  glided  swiftly  up  the  stairs,  flight  after  flight, 
and  through  the  suffocating  passages  until  she  reached  her 
uncle's  door ;  it  was  open,  and  his  room  was  clearer  of  smoke 
than  any  other,  from  the  wind  blowing  through  the  open 
•n  indow. 

There  he  lay  in  a  deep  sleep !  She  sprang  to  the  bedside, 
seized  and  shook  the  arm  of  the  sleeper. 


THE      FOKEST      FAIKY.  207 

"Uncle!  uncle!  wake,  for  God's  sake,  wake!  the  house  is 
on  fire!" 

"Hura-ra-m-e !"  muttered  the  old  man,  giving  a  great  heave 
and  plunge,  and  turning  over  into  a  heavier  sleep  than  before. 

"Uncle!  uncle!  You  will  be  burned  to  death,  if  you  don't 
wake  up !"  cried  Jacquelina,  shaking  him  violently. 

"  Humph  !  Yes,  Jacquelina  !  urn — urn — urn — Grim !  urn — 
nm — Luckenough !  muttered  the  dreamer,  flinging  about  his 
great  arms. 

"  Luckenongh  is  in  flames !  My  God !  My  God  !  Uncle ! 
wake!  wake!"  she  cried,  shaking  him  frantically. 

"Ah!  ha!  yes!  d — d  little  rascal  is  at  her  tricks  again!"  he 
said,  laughing  in  his  sleep. 

At  that  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  a  falling  rafter  in 
the  adjoining  room.  Every  instant  was  worth  a  life,  and  there 
he  lay  in  a  sodden,  hopeless  sleep. 

Oh,  surely  the  angels  who  saved  the  children  in  the  fiery  fur- 
nace will  hold  up  the  sinking  roof! 

Suddenly  Sans  Souci  ran  to  the  ewer — it  was  empty.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost !  every  second  was  invaluable !  He  must 
be  instantly  roused,  and  Jacquelina  was  not  fastidious  as  to 
the  means  in  doing  so  I 

Leaping  upon  the  bolster  behind  his  great,  stupid  head,  she 
reached  over,  and  seizing  the  mass  of  his  gray,  grizzly  beard,  she 
pulled  up  the  wrong  way,  with  all  her  might,  until,  roaring 
with  pain,  he  started  up  in  a  fury,  and  seeing  her,  exclaimed, 

"  Oh !  you  abominable  little  vixen  !  is  that  you  ?  Do  you 
dare!  Are  you  frantic,  then  ?  Oh,  you  outrageous  little  dare- 
devil !  Wont  I  send  you  to  a  mad-house,  and  have  you  put  in 
a  straight-jacket,  till  you  know  how  to  behave  yourself!  You 
infernal  little  wretch  you  I" 

A  sudden  thought  struck  Sans  Souci,  to  move  him  by  his 
affection  for  herself. 

"Uncle,  iook  around  you!  The  house  is  burning!  if  you 
do  not  rouse  yourself  and  save  your  poor  little  'wretch,'  she 
must  perish  in  the  flames!" 


208  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

This  effectually  brought  him  to  his  senses;  he  understood 
everything !  he  leaped  from  the  bed,  seized  a  blanket,  envel- 
oped her  in  it,  raised  her  in  his  arms,  and  forgetting  gout, 
lameness,  leg  and  all,  bore  her  down  the  creaking,  heated  stairs, 
flight  after  flight,  and  through  the  burning  passages  out  of  the 
house,  in  safety. 

Oh,  surely  the  angels  had  held  up  that  sinking  roof,  that,  as 
soon  as  they  had  passed  in  safety,  fell  with  an  awful  resonance, 
sending  up  new  flames  to  Heaven,  bearing,  as  it  were,  the  story 
of  the  young  girl's  heroism. 

A  shout  of  joy  greeted  the  Commodore,  as  he  appeared  with 
Jacquelina  in  the  yard. 

But  heeding  nothing  but  the  burden  he  bore  in  his  arms,  the 
old  sailor  strode  on  until  he  reached  a  convenient  spot,  where  he 
threw  the  blanket  off  her  face  to  give  her  air. 

She  had  fainted — the  terror  and  excitement  had  been  too 
great — the  reaction  was  too  powerful — it  had  overwhelmed  her, 
and  she  lay  insensible  across  his  arms,  her  fair  head  hanging 
back,  her  white  garments  streaming  in  the  air,  her  golden  locks 
floating,  her  witching  eyes  closed,  and  her  blue  lips  apart,  and 
rigid  on  her  glistening  teeth — so  she  lay  like  dead  Cordelia  in 
the  arms  of  old  Lear. 

Henrietta  and  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  followed  by  all  the  household, 
crowded  around  them,  with  water,  the  only  restorative  at  hand. 

At  length  she  recovered  and  looked  up,  a  little  bewildered, 
but  soon  memory  and  understanding  returned,  and  gazing  at 
her  uncle,  she  suddenly  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

She  was  then  carried  away  into  one  of  the  best  negro  quar- 
ters, and  laid  upon  a  bed,  and  attended  by  her  mother  and  her 
maid  Maria. 

The  Commodore,  with  his  wife,  found  shelter  in  another  quar- 
ter. And  the  few  remaining  members  of  the  household  were 
accommodated  in  a  similar  manner  elsewhere. 

They  had  scarcely  got  within  doors  when  the  storm,  that  had 
been  muttering  in  the  distance  all  the  forepart  of  the  uiglit. 


THE      FOREST      FAIRY.  209 

now  burst  upon  the  earth.  The  rain  came  down  in  torrents, 
"like  another  deluge,  and  continued  with  unabated  violence  until 
morning. 

The  sun  arose  upon  a  strange,  wild  scene — a  scene  of  beauty 
and  of  desolation !  There  was  the  greensward  and  shrubbe- 
ries, and  the  surrounding  belt  of  forest,  all  verdant  and  spangled 
with  rain-drops,  and  sparkling  in  the  fresh  light  of  morning — 
and  there,  in  the  midst,  was  the  ruin,  with  its  blackened  walls 
and  chimneys !  The  fire  had  been  effectually  extinguished  by 
the  floods  of  rain,  but  not  until  it  had  completed  the  wrork  of 
destruction. 

Nothing  had  been  saved  but  the  clothing  in  which  the  family 
stood.  Something  doubtless  might  have  been  secured  from  the 
flames  had  there  been  an  organized  action,  or  a  leader,  with 
presence  of  mind  enough  left  to  direct  the  crowd,  who,  panic- 
stricken  by  the  suddenness,  and  the  unprecedented  nature  of 
the  catastrophe,  had  remained  totally  inactive. 

The  loss,  complete  as  it  was  in  regard  to  Luckenough,  was 
not,  however,  very  great ;  the  house  and  the  furniture  were  old, 
and  might  be  considered  to  owe  no  farther  service  to  their  pro- 
prietor. For  years  there  had  been  a  talk  of  pulling  down  and 
rebuilding  and  refurnishing.  The  long  deferred  and  doubtful 
matter  was  now  precipitated  and  rendered  certain.  That  was 
all.  After  a  rude  breakfast,  the  best  that  could  be  prepared 
under  the  circumstances,  a  family  council  was  called,  and  it  was 

decided  that  they  should  go  to  B for  the  present,  until 

some  other  course  was  fixed  upon,  especially  as  Jacquelina  was 
very  ill  and  needed  immediate  medical  attendance. 

The  stables  had  not  been  burned,  and  the  carriage  and 
nor^es  were  safe.  Festus  and  Bill  were  directed  to  bring  them 
around,  while  Maria,  mounted  on  a  mule,  was  despatched  to 
the  nearest  neighbor  to  borrow  clothing  for  the  burnt-out 
family. 

It  was  near  noon  before  they  were  all  ready  to  set  forth  from 
the  scene  of  disaster,  and  it  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
when  they  found  tnemselves  temporarily  settled  at  the  little  hotel 


210  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

at  Benedict,  in  the  very  apartments  formerly  occupied  by  Edith 
and  Marian. 

Here  Jacquelina  suffered  a  long  and  severe  spell  of  illness, 
during  which  her  bright  hair  was  cut  off. 

And  here  beautiful  Marian  came,  with  her  gift  of  tender 
nursing,  and  devoted  herself  day  and  night  to  the  service  of  the 
yoang  invalid.  And  all  the  leisure  time  she  found  while  bitting 
by  the  sick  bed  she  busily  employed  in  making  up  clothing  foi 
the  almost  denuded  family.  And  never  had  the  dear  girl's 
nimble  fingers  flown  so  fast  or  so  willingly. 

Every  day  the  Commodore,  accompanied  by  Dr.  Grimshaw, 
rode  over  to  Luckenough  to  superintend  the  labors  of  the 
workmen  in  pulling  down  and  clearing  away  the  ruins  of  the 
old  mansion,  and  preparing  the  site  for  a  new  building. 

Six  weeks  passed  and  brought  the  first  of  August,  before 
Jacquelina  was  able  to  sit  up,  and  then  the  physicians  recom- 
mended change  of  air  and  the  waters  of  Bentley  Springs  for 
the  re-establishment  of  her  health. 

During  her  illness,  Jacquelina  had  become  passionately  at- 
tached to  Marian,  as  all  persons  did  who  came  under  the  daily  in- 
fluence of  the  beautiful  girl.  Dr.  Grimshaw  was  to  accompany 
the  family  to  Bentley.  Jacquelina  insisted  that  Marian  should 
be  asked  to  make  one  of  the  party.  Accordingly,  the  Commo- 
dore and  Mrs.  Waugh,  nothing  loth,  invited  and  pressed  the 
kind  maiden  to  go  with  them.  But  for  many  reasons  Marian 
declined  the  journey — first,  she  could  not  or  would  not  leave 
Edith,  except  upon  missions  of  benevolence  or  necessity — 
secondly,  now  that  her  services  were  no  longer  needed,  she  did 
not  wish  to  accept  the  hospitality  of  the  uncle  from  whom  her 
sister  was  still  estranged  ;  and,  lastly,  had  neither  of  these  greai 
reasons  existed,  a  smaller  one  equally  cogent  wouiJ  have  pre- 
vented her  becoming  one  of  the  party,  namely — Marian  had  no 
proper  wardrobe  for  the  occasion.  Two  or  three  coarse,  light- 
blue  ginghams,  and  lilac  calicoes,  and  one  white  dress,  con- 
stituted Marian's  summer  outfit.  The  dear  maiden  was  too 
disinterested,  too  much  the  servant  of  the  public,  to  have  ace  a- 


CK-TOUKNAMENT.  211 

mulated  anything  beyond  the  necessities  of  clothing  for  her 
self.  Therefore,  when  her  duties  as  nurse  and  seamstress  were 
over  Marian  rejoined  Edith. 

And  Commodore  Waugh,  with  his  wife,  hit.  niece,  and  his 
Grim',  set  out  in  the  family  carriage  for  Bentley  Springs. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE      MOCK-TOURNAMENT. 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  confessed 
A  maid  in  all  her  charms." — Goldsmith. 

IT  was  Jacquelina's  first  visit  to  a  watering  place,  and  it  mignt 
be  said  to  be  her  first  entrance  into  society.  Her  health  rapidly 
improved,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  pleasure  with  all  the  en- 
thusiasm of  a  novice.  None  so  gay  as  she !  Her  hair  had  not 
been  cut  so  close  but  that  it  would  curl  and  cluster  in  little 
£S  around  her  laughing  forehead — giving  new  piquancy 
face.  She  was  the  newest  beauty  there, 
last  of  the  season,  there  was  a  project  started  that 
enlisted  all  Jacquelina's  interest — this  was  a  niock-toui'namei:., 
to  be  followed  by  a  masked  ball.  She  entered  into  the  spirit 
of  the  thing  with  all  her  heart  and  soul,  as  usual.  Indeed,  it 
was  believed  by  those  who  had  good  opportunities  of  judging, 
that  the  fairy  herself  was  the  invisible  inspircr  and  instigator  of 
the  whole  affair ;  that  she  dropped  a  hint  here,  and  a  hint  there, 
in  the  proper  quarters,  where  her  suggestions  would  fall  like 
sparks  of  fire  on  combustible  material,  until  the  whole  company 
at  the  Springs  were  a-blaze  with  excitement  upon  the  subject 
of  the  mock-tournament. 

And  all  the  young  meh,  and  many  of  the  elder  ones,  passed 
several  hours  daily  in  practicing  j  and  already  there  was  such  a 


212  THE      KISSING      BRIDE. 

difference  in  skill  displayed,  that  confident  predictions  were 
made  as  to  which  should  carry  off  the  ring  the  greatest  number 
of  times,  and  which  should  be  the  second,  and  the  third,  in 
success,  etc. 

Jacqnelina  listened  to  all  this  with  the  greatest  gravity,  only 
there  was  such  an  unfathomable  depth  of  mischief  lurking  in 
her  demure  eyes ! 

The  ladies  were  equally  busy  with  the  subject  of  the  characters 
to  be  assumed,  and  the  dresses  to  be  worn  at  the  fancy  ball. 

An  agent  was  procured  and  dispatched  to  the  city,  with  writ- 
ten directions  to  select  materials  for  the  fancy  dresses,  mock 
armor,  etc. 

Everybody  knew,  of  course,  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  burlesque, 
and  expected  and  prepared  for  nothing  else.  I  must  pass  over 
the  bustle  of  the  preparations  that  occupied  two  weeks,  and  the 
accession  of  company  from  the  neighboring  towns  and  villages 
and  the  country  round  about,  that  poured  into  Bentley  to  see 
the  wonder  of  the  mock-tournament — the  actors  in  which  knew 
perfectly  well  that  they  were  making  fools  of  themselves,  but  they 
did  so  with  purpose,  "  prepense  and  aforethought,"  and  no  less 
zealously  upon  that  account. 

The  great  day  of  the  tournament  came  at  last.  I  suppose  it 
is  necessary  to  give  some  idea  of  the  scene  in  which  the  splendid 
spectacle  of  the  tenth  century  was  revived  and  travestied  in  the 
nineteenth. 

The  hour  was  fixed  for  noon.    The  site  was  well  selected. 

Imagine  an  open  plain,  ending  at  the  south  with  a  high, 
steep  cliff,  crowned  with  a  forest,  which  at  noon  cast  a  long, 
dense  shadow.  Under  the  shade  of  this  cliff  were  erected  the 
seats  of  the  spectators,  wooden  benches,  raised  one  above  the 
other,  backwards.  Here,  at  an  early  hour,  were  assembled  and 
seated  the  greater  number  of  the  visitors  of  the  Springs — that 
is  to  say,  all  the  ladies  and  children,  and  such  of  the  gentlemen 
as  did  not  take  active  part  in  the  burlesque. 

Opposite  these  seats,  at  the  extreme  north  of  the  plain,  under 
a  canopy,  the  King-at-Arms,  with  heralds  and  pursuivants,  in 
costume,  held  his  court. 


TIIE      MOCK-TOURNAMENT.  213 

At  the  east  end  was  the  gate  through  which  the  "  knights" 
entered — here  were  also  stationed  heralds  and  pursuivants  in 
fancy  dresses. 

Opposite,  at  the  west  extremity,  was  the  gate  through  which 
they  (the  knights)  issued,  and  here  were  stationed  the  "minstrels," 
— that  is  to  say,  a  modern  band  of  music — silent  n:>w,  :ut  to 
strike  up  a  triumphant  peal  at  the  pass  of  every  victorious 
knight. 

Xow.  if  you  fancy  that  this  mock-tournament  is  to  be  an  en- 
counter of  gallant  knights  with  shield  and  lance,  I  am  sorry  to 
disappoint  you.  We  cannot  even  so  much  as  travestie  those 
things  now*  Few  men  now  would  like,  even  in  sport,  to  meet 
an  opponent  in  such  thunder-shocks  !  No !  It  was  an  encoun- 
ter only  of  lance  and  ring — a  feat  of  agility — an  exhibition  of 
sleight-of-hand,  quickness  and  sureness  of  eye,  and  skillful  and 
elegant  horsemanship — no  more. 

And  now  take  notice— a  well  rolled  gravel-road  was  made  to 
traverse  the  plain  from  the  east  gate,  at  which  the  knights  were 
to  enter  to  the  west  gate,  from  which  they  were  finally  to  i^sue. 
Midway  across  this  road  stood  what  looked  precisely  like  a 
gibbet,  with  a  noose  hanging  down.  Don't  be  shocked  how- 
ever !  For  it  was  a  much  more  merry  matter.  That  was  a 
rope  certainly  that  hung  down  midway  from  the  cross:beam — 
and  at  the  end  of  that  rope  was  a  small  steel  hook,  with  its  point 
towards  the  west.  Upon  that  hook  hung  an  iron  ring  of  four 
inches  in  diameter.  Xow  the  feat  to  be  accomplished  was  this 
— for  the  rider,  while  in  full  gallop,  to  bear  off  the  ring  on  the 
point  of  his  lance. 

Among  the  spectators  were  of  course  our  rustic  family  from 
Luckenough — the  Commodore,  Mrs.  Waugh,  Mrs.  L'Oiheau, 
and  Dr.  Grimshaw — all  except  Jacquelina!  and  all  faking  the 
greatest  interest  in  the  scene  about  to  be  performed. 

Poor  Jacquelina!  Unlucky  Sans  Souci!  It  really  seemed  a 
very  great  pity,  after  all  the  zeal  she  had  displayed  in  the  get- 
ting up  of  this  frolic — that  on  the  very  morning  of  its  enactment, 
ghe  should  be  seized  with — oh  1  such  a  maddening  nervous  head- 


214  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ache!  A.  headache  that  "ached"  so  dreadfully,  she  could  not 
hear  a  ray  of  light  or  the  sound  of  a  footfall — a  headache  that 
nothing  but  utter  darkness  and  silence  and  profound  rest  cond 
mitigate.  She  vowed  that  she  was  sure,  if  she  heard  any  one 
within  ten  feet  of  her  room-door,  she  should  fall  into  fits.  And 
so  she  had  every  window-shutter  closed,  and  sent  Grim',  and  the 
Commodore,  and  her  mother,  and  her  aunty,  and  the  maid  Maria, 
all  in  turn,  out  of  her  room — protesting  that  if  she  was  not  left 
alone,  she  should  go  into  convulsions  1  But  if  only  permitted  to 
go  quietly  to  sleep,  she  should  be  better  in  the  afternoon.  And 
so,  at  her  urgent  desire,  she  was  left  alone  in  the  dark  room, 
with  a  lump  of  ice  at  her  head,  and  mustard-plasters  on  the  soles 
of  her  feet. 

Everybody  pitied  Miss  L'Oiseau,  but  soon  forgot  her  in  the 
excitement  of  the  coming  scene. 

"Poor  Lapwing!  how  unfortunate  that  she  should  be  sick 
this  day  of  all  days,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  "but  she  seemed  right 
well  content,  too,  and  doubtless  she  will  be  much  better  this 
afternoon,  and  be  able  to  assist  at  the  fancy  ball,"  added  the 
lady,  comforting  herself  that  she  might  the  better  enjoy  the 
scene  about  to  commence. 

A  herald  in  a  blue  tunic  blew  his  trumpet  at  the  northern 
extremity  of  the  area,  proclaiming  the  lists  "pen,  and  the  tour- 
nament about  to  commence.  At  the  east  gate,  another  herald, 
in  a  yellow  tunic,  repeated  the  proclamation.  And  at  the  west, 
another  in  red  reiterated  it.  These  officials  were  termed  by  the 
uninitiated  crowd,  "the  red  boy,"  "the  yellow  boy,"  and  "  the 
blue  boy !"  A  goodly  number  of  competitors,  in  fancy  dressea 
and  mock  armor,  were  congregated  at  the  eastern  gate.  The 
"blue  boy, "in  a  sonorous  voice,  proclaimed  their  names  and 
titles.  The  characters  assumed  for  the  occasion  were — alas  for 
modesty  and  veneration  ! — the  very  greatest  heroes  of  the  middle 
ages;  among  them,  "Richard  Cffiur-de-Lion,"  the  "Black 
Prince,"  "  Harry,  of  England,"  (Henry  V.)  "  Hotspur,"  "  Sii 
William  Wallace,"  etc.  There  were  also  some  of  a  more  cornic 
character,  (it  was  all  comic  enough,)  there  were  Don  Quixote 


THE      MOCK-TOURNAMENT.  U15 

and  Sancho  Panza,  Sir  Hudibras,  etc.  But  the  name  of  the 
first  competitor  was  about  to  be  proclaimed,  and  a  deadsileuce 
ensued. 

"  The  Knight  of  Malta!"  shouted  the  herald  from  the  north, 
whose  voice  was,  unluckily,  very  thick. 

"  The  Knight  of  the  Altar!"  repeated  the  east  herald,  whose 
ears  were  no  better  than  the  other's  voice,  and, 

"  The  Knight  of  the — HALTER  !"  vociferated  the  west  herald, 
who  was  too  far  off  to  hear  well. 

"Oh!  that  is  too  funny !  Poor  Lapwing !  How  she  would 
enjoy  that !"  said  Mrs.  AYaugh. 

But  just  then  the  Knight  of  the  "  Halter"  dashed  forward  on 
the  road,  with  his  lance  balanced  lightly  in  his  right  hand — 
and  without  pausing  or  slackening  his  speed  in  the  least,  sped 
through  the  area,  and  bore  off  the  ring !  The  band  of  music 
struck  up  a  triumphal  air,  and  the  spectators  gave  a  shout  of 
congratulation.  The  successful  aspirant  turned  and  rode  around 
the  area,  and  fell  into  his  place.  And  the  ring  was  restored  to 
its  station. 

And  then  the  name  of  another  candidate  was  proclaimed  in 
turn  by  the  three  heralds,  and  he  rode  forward.  This  was  a 
splendid  equestrian — but  alas,  as  he  sped  through  the  course, 
he  only  touched,  and  did  not  carry  off  the  ring ;  and  the  music 
kept  a  dead  silence,  while  he  rode  back  crest-fallen,  with  his 
lance  trailing  by  the  saddle-bow. 

Then  came  a  third  candidate,  who  also  missed  ;  and  then  a 
fourth,  who  carried  off  the  ring ;  and  a  fifth  and  a  sixth,  who 
failed  even  to  touch  it;  and  a  seventh  and  eighth,  who  bore  it 
off  in  triumph.  And  thus,  with  more  or  less  success,  all  the 
candidates  who  had  failed  were  ruled  out  from  the  list  of  com- 
petitors, while  those  who  had  succeeded  remained  for  a  second 
trial  of  skill. 

There  were  but  nine  competitors  in  the  second  course.  And 
this  passed  off  with  the  like  success  as  the  first — that  is  to  say, 
less  than  one-half  the  candidates  succeeded.  Five  failed,  and 
had  their  names  stricken  off  the  list  Four  remained  to  try  the 


216 


THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 


third  course.  These  were  "  The  Black  Prince,"  "  Hotspur," 
"  Don  Quixote  De  La  Mancha,"  and  "  The  Knight  of  Malta," 
alias  of  the  "  Halter." 

With  the  narrowing  down  of  the  number  of  competitors,  the 
excitement  of  the  actors,  as  well  as  of  the  spectators,  arose.  On 
the  part  of  the  rivals  there  was  of  course  more  fatigue,  and  less 
steady  coolness  than  before.  Perhaps  it  was  upon  this  account, 
that  in  riding  the  third  course,  three  of  the  competitors  failed, 
while  only  one,  "  The  Knight  of  Malta,"  succeeded,  thus  re- 
maining, as  he  and  every  one  else  supposed,  sole  victor  of  the 
field ! 

Not  as  they  knew  of,  however !  "  There's  many  a  slip  'twixt 
the  cup  and  the  lip,"  and  "  oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft 
there  where  most  it  promises."  For  while  the  victor  knight, 
bearinsr  aloft  the  ring  upon  the  point  of  his  lance,  was  careering 
around  the  field,  and  the  ladies  were  waving  handkerchiefs 
and  casting  bouquets  in  his  way,  and  while  the  triumphant 
music  was  pealing,  and  the  crowd  was  shouting,  and  the  trum- 
pets blowing,  and  the  heralds  vociferating,  and  the  "  King-at- 
Arms"  preparing  to  proclaim,  through  his  marshals,  that  the 
renowned  "Knight  of  Malta"  was  the  victor  of  the  day,  and 
entitled  to  the  honor  of  crowning  the  lady  of  his  fealty  Queen 
of  Beauty  and  Love — hark !  the  winding  of  a  horn,  whose 
piercing  notes  penetrated  through  all  grosser  sounds,  and  an- 
nounced the  advent  of  a  new  challenger ! 

And  lo  !  at  the  west  gate,  a  vision  of  dazzling  splendor! 
Sun  and  stars  and  diamonds,  how  radiant !  It  was  a  young 
knight,  a  mere  stripling,  in  what  seemed  silver  plated  scale 
armor,  that  glanced  and  flashed  in  the  sunlight  with  blinding 
radiance — his  helmet  was  encircled  by  a  diadem  of  what  seemed 
precious  stones — diamonds,  rubies,  and  emeralds,  that  sparkled, 
glowed,  and  blazed  in  rays  of  many  colored  fire,  crested  with  a 
snow  white  plume — his  steed  was  white,  with  housings  of  white 
satin,  wrought  with  a  deep  border  of  silver  lilies,  and  fiiushed 
with  a  deep  fringe  of  silver  threads.  Light,  graceful,  ferial, 
aiid  dazzlingly  radiant,  was  this  resplendent  vision  !  All  the 


THE      MOCK-TOURNAMENT.  217 

crowd  arose  to  look,  and  then  turned  their  half  blinded  eyes 
a\vay. 

A  herald  from  the  King-at-Arms  demanded  his  name,  lineage, 
and  country. 

"  PRINCE  ARIEL,  from  the  Court  of  Fairy." 

His  errand  at  the  tournament  ? 

To  challenge  the  victor  knight  to  a  trial  of  a  dozen  rounds  I 
This  was  very  trying  indeed,  just  in  the  moment  of  victory. 
But  by  all  the  gallant  and  generous  usages  of  chivalry,  this 
challenge  must  not  be  refused — besides,  the  Fairy  Prince  was 
such  a  mere  sprite — not  likely  to  conquer  in  material  con  tests. 
The  assembly  also,  by  acclamation,  demanded  that  the  challenge 
should  be  accepted.  And  it  was  accepted.  Order  was  restored. 
Lots  were  drawn  for  the  first  trial,  which  fell  on  the  fortunate 
Knight  of  Malta. 

Once  more,  with  lance  balanced  in  his  right  hand,  the  knight 
spurred  on  his  charger  towards  the  arch,  and  passed  under  it, 
carrying  off  the  ring.  And  while  he  rode  round  the  area,  the 
crowd  shouted,  and  the  music  pealed  forth  as  before. 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  the  Fairy  Prince.  He  was  stationed 
at  the  west  gate.  With  a  swift,  smooth,  wavy  motion,  he  gal- 
loped on,  his  silver  armor  glancing  in  the  sun  rays,  passed 
under  the  arch,  and  carried  off  the  ring.  And  the  music  struck 
up,  the  crowd  applauded,  etc. 

The  Knight  of  Malta's  turn.  He  dashed  on,  with  lance  held 
as  before,  and  passed  under  the  arch,  bearing  off  the  ring,  amid 
the  usual  peals  and  plaudits. 

And  then  again  the  Fairy  Prince.  He  sped  forward,  like 
arrow  to  its  aim,  swept  through  the  arch,  and  bore  off  the  prize, 
amid  the  acclamations  of  the  impartial  multidude,  and  the 
thunders  of  the  music. 

So  far  the  success  was  equal,  although  the  Fairy  Prince  far 
surpassed  the  Knight  in  elegance,  and  asrial  grace  of  carriage. 
And  this  equality  of  success  continued  for  several  more  rounds. 

At  length,  however,  the  Prince  seemed  to  wish  to  bring  the 
contest  to  a  crisis.  And  when  his  turn  came  round,  instead 


218  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

of  sweeping  onward  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  as  he  had  done 
before,  he  set  forward  in  a  gentle  amble,  until  he  got  within  a 
few  feet  of  the  arch,  when  he  backed  his  horse  for  a  flying  leap, 
aimed  his  lance,  and  vaulted  through,  carrying  off  the  ring 
upon  the  point,  and  falling  again  into  the  gentle  amble,  finished 
the  course  ;  then  turning  on  his  road,  he  rode  back,  and  in  the 
act  of  vaulting  through  the  arch,  replaced  the  ring  upon  the 
hook,  amid  deafening  thunders  of  applause. 

This  was  a  feat  that  had  not  been  attempted  before.  The 
Knight  of  Malta,  thus  tacitly  challenged  to  rival  this  skill,  de- 
clined the  attempt,  and  in  all  knightly  courtesy  yielded  the 
palm  to  Fairy  Prince  as  Victor  of  the  Day. 

The  excitement  of  the  crowd  was  unprecedented.  Every  man 
was  up  on  his  feet.  Every  lady  was  waving  her  handkerchief. 
The  band  of  music  went  mad,  and  raved  away  in  a  perfect 
storm  of  triumph.  The  heralds  nearly  split  their  throats  blow- 
ing the  trumpets.  And  the  King-at-Arms,  and  all  his  marshals, 
vociferated  themselves  hoarse,  in  trying  to  "  conquer  a  peace." 

At  length,  however,  silence  was  restored. 

And  then  "Prince  Ariel,  of  Fairyland,"  was  pronounced 
victor  of  the  day,  and  entitled  to  the  honor  of  crowning  his 
liege  lady  Queen  of  Beauty  and  Love. 

But  who  was  the  radiant  Prince  Ariel,  and  who  was  the 
lady  of  his  choice  ?  That  was  the  question  that  excited  to  the 
utmost  the  interest  of  the  breathless  assembly. 

He  had  received  the  crown  from  the  King-at-Arms,  and  was 
about  to  indicate  his  queen  by  the  act  of  coronation  !  What 
lady  would  she  be  ? 

He  now  rode  around  the  area,  bearing  the  crown  in  his  hand, 
and  approaching  the  seats  of  the  spectators,  paced  along  be- 
neath them,  his  snow-white  charger  prancing  in  its  spangled 
white  housings,  his  silver  armor  flashing  in  the  sun,  his  diadem 
of  precious  stones  burning  like  a  circlet  of  fire  around  his  hel- 
rnet,  his  snow-white  plume  dancing  above  his  closed  vizor 
Oh,  who  was  the  dazzling  Fairy  Prince  ? 

Reader,  have  you  ever  doubted  his  identity  for  a  single 
moment  ? 


THE      MOCK-TOUKNAMENT.  219 

But  lo  !  he  has  paused  before  a  group  among  the  spectators. 
Expectation  is  on  tip-toe !  All  bend  their  eyes  to  that  focus ! 
But  how  is  this  ?  It  is  our  rustic  party  from  Luckenough,  and 
there  is  no  fair  lady  in  the  group  !  What  can  the  Fairy  Prince 
mean  ?  All  eyes  are  riveted  to  the  spot.  And  the  Commo- 
dore and  his  party  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it  at  all.  The 
Commodore's  eyes  are  distended  to  their  widest  ability.  And 
the  rest  of  the  party  wait  in  breathless  expectancy  I  They  have 
a  faint  impression  that  the  victor  is  in  search  of  Jacquelina. 

The  Fairy  Prince  now  bows  before  the  group,  until  the  snow- 
white  crest  sweeps  the  snow-white  housings  of  the  steed ;  and, 
placing  the  crown  upon  the  point  of  his  lance,  he  raises  it  and 
lays  it  at  the  feet  of — THE  COMMODORE. 

A  shout  of  laughter  rends  the  air !  The  veteran  blushed 
black  with  embarrassment,  shame  and  anger,  at  what  he  con- 
siders an  attempt  to  turn  him  into  ridicule.  But  the  multitude 
shout — "  Take  up  the  offering,  gallant  Commodore  !  Take  it 
up  !  See  you  not  that  the  tribute  was  made  to  your  beautiful 
niece,  the  lovely  Miss  L'Oiseau,  whom  we  are  sorry  to  miss 
from  this  tournament,  but  whom  we  shall  be  glad  to  hear  pre^ 
sently  proclaimed  the  queen  of  love  and  beauty  !"  "Unmask! 
Unmask,  gallant  knight,  and  declare  yourself,  that  we  may  know 
whom  to  name  when  we  toast  the  victor !" 

Tremendous  is  the  sensation,  deafening  the  shouts  and  cheers 
when  the  Fairy  Prince  raises  his  visor  and  reveals  the  goldeu 
hair,  and  laughing  brow,  and  malicious  blue  eyes  of  our  Sans 
Souci  I 

"  Oh  good  !  that  girl  will  be  the  death  of  me  !  She  abso- 
lutely makes  my  heart  beat  in  the  back  of  my  head,  and  my 
shoulders  open  and  shut  like  a  pair  of  clap-boards  !"  groans  the 
overwhelmed  Commodore. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE      SPRITE      IN      THE      CONVENT. 

*  Now  is  it  not  a  pity  such  a  merry  girl  as  T, 
Should  be  sent  to  a  nunnery  to  pine  away  and  die  ?" 

THE  mock-tournament  had  broken  up  in  disorder — the  com- 
pany gathering  into  knots  to  discuss  this  last  eccentricity  of 
Miss  L'Oiseau,  or  dispersing  to  laugh  at  it  in  their  own  apart- 
ments. 

The  Commodore,  with  a  grip  of  Jacquelina's  shoulder,  sent 
her  along  before  him  and  his  party,  until  they  reached  their 
own  private  parlor. 

"  And  now  you — what  shall  I  call  you  ?  What  shall  I  say  to 
you  ?  Was  ever  a  man  so  bedeviled  as  I  am  I"  he  exclaimed, 
standing  her  before  him. 

"  Have  patience,  uncle  !    'Patience,  and  smoke  your  pipe  !'  " 

"  I'll  be  shot  if  I  do  !  Where  did  you  get  that  masquerading 
dress,  you  little  minx  ?" 

"  I  ran  you  in  debt  for  it,  uncle  !  It  cost  only  three  hundred 
dollars." 

"  Three  hun WHAT  ?" 

"Yes,  you  see,  it's  not  real  precious  metal  and  precious 
stones — it's  only  the  best  o'  tin  and  colored  glass — nothing's 
real  in  it  but  the  white  plumes  1  And  aunty  can  have  them  for 
her  winter  bonnet  if  she  wants  them.  And  that'll  be  a  real 
saving !"  said  Sans  Souci,  very  demurely,  her  wicked  eyes 
sparkling  with  internal  fun. 

The  Commodore  trotted  up  and  down,  making  short,  impa- 
tient turns  in  the  narrow  room,  like  a  chafed  old  lion  iu  his 
cage,  and  grunting. 

"  Ugh  !  ugh  1  ugh  1  She  crushes  me  !  She  presses  me  !  I 
feel  like  a  lemon  between  the  squeezers,  with  every  drop  of 
(220) 


THE      SPRIl'E      IN      THE      CONVENT.       221 

blood  starting  from  every  pore  of  my  skin.  Ugh  !  ugh  !  You 
little  imp  of  Satan,  you  !  Where  in  thunder  did  you  think  I 
was  to  get  three  hundred  dollars  to  pay  for  your  deviltries  ?'' 

"  Nowhere  in  thunder,  sir." 

"  I  wont  pay  for  it !  there,  Minx  !" 

"  Just  as  you  please,  uncle  !  Only  do  remember  that  you 
gave  the.  agent  a  carte  llanche  to  get  any  fancy  dress  I  should 
order,  and  I  fancied  ordering  this  !" 

"  It  was  a  breach  of  trust !  It  was  an  abominable  breach  of 
trust !  And  three  hundred  dollars  for  so  much  flashy  trash  !" 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  be  comforted,  uncle  !  Since  you  are  so  stingy, 
let  me  tell  you  that  your  niece's  fancy  dress  cost  you  next  to 
nothing.  The  agent  hired  it  for  her  from  a  pantomime  com- 
pany !" 

The  Commodore  uttered  a  cry,  and  dropped  down  into  a 
chair  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  lie  was  really  shocked. 

"  All  the  fiends  alive  !  Henrietta,  do  you  hear  that !  Mary, 
do  you  hear  that  I  She  has  actually  dressed  herself  in  the  com- 
mon property  dress  of  some  theatre  or  other !  Ugh  !  ugh  ! 
ugh  !  She — she's  a  visitation  of  wrath  !  she — she's  a  judgment 
on  me  for  my  sins  !  Ugh  1  ugh  !  She's  a  cleaving  madness, 

she  is !  'A  pantomime  property,'  you !  Get  out  of  my 

sight  this  instant,  you  imp,  before  I'm  tempted  to  murder 
you!" 

"  Don't  fret  and  fume,  uncle — it  will  bring  on  the  gout !" 

"Begone  !" 

"  Don't  fret,  uncle  !  I  have  only  been  joking  with  you  ! 
Why  I  would  no  more  wear  second  hand  costume,  than — than 
— you  would  have  me  to  do  it.  The  agent  had  this  suit  made 
to  order  for  me  and  it  did  not  cost  much  either — a  mere  trifle  V 

"  Who  can  put  any  confidence  in  what  you  say,  you  elf?'' 

"  Everybody  can,  uncle !  You  can  when  I  assure  you  that 
I  am  telling  the  truth  1  And  since  you  spoke  of  the  price,  let 
me  tell  you  again  that  this  cost  only — " 

"  D — 1  take  the  cost !  I'm  not  thinking  of  the  cost,  but  of 
your  conduct — " 


222  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Yes  !  didn't  I  do  it  beautifully,  uncle  ?  Aint  you  proud  of 
me  now  ?  Aint  I  an  honor  to  you  ?" 

"  You're  a — catastrophe !  Get  out  of  my  sight !  Begone ! 
And  don't  let  me  see  you  again  for  a  week !" 

Jacquelina  laughed,  and  started,  her  mock  armor  jingling 
like  silver  bells  as  she  went. 

When  the  door  closed  after  her  a  family  council  was  held. 
Henrietta  sat  there,  taking  things  as  quietly  as  she  usually  took 
them.  But  Mary  L'Oiseau  was  pale  with  surprise,  dismay, 
and  dread,  until  the  Commodore,  turning  to  her,  said, 

"  Well,  madam  1  What  do  you  think  I  shall  have  to  do  with 
this  precious  girl  of  yours  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  timorous  creature,  be- 
ginning to  weep.  "  I  always  knew  it  would  turn  out  just  so !" 

"Just  how?" 

"  I  always  knew  Jacquelina  would  give  you  offence,  and  then 
— and  then — " 

"  Well,  and  then— what  ?     Can't  you  speak,  Mary  ?" 

But  Mary  was  weeping. 

"  I  ask  you  what  you  think  had  best  be  done  with  her." 

"Oh!  I'm  sure  I  don't  know!  I  can't  defend  her!  You 
must  do  exactly  as  you  think  fit !  I  shan't  interfere !" 

"  Xo  matter  what  I  decide  to  do  with  her  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  I  for  I'm  perfectly  weary  and  worn  out  with 
contending  with  her  follies." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  marry  her  to  Grim'— right  off!" 

"  Oh,  no !  not  that !  She  is  but  fifteen !  she  is  too  young ! 
Besides,  she  wouldn't  consent  now!  She'd  be  sure  to  be 
mulish !  Wait  for  two  or  three  years,  until  she  is  old  enough, 
and  has  sense  enough  to  see  the  advantages  of  such  a  marriage 
— then  she'll  consent." 

"  Then  she  will  be  sure  to  do  just  as  Edith  did !  Especially 
as  it  will  be  some  time  before  Luckenoug'h  is  built  up,  and  we 
shall  have  to  board  in  the  village,  where  we  shall  see  all  sorts 
of  people,  and  she'll  have  beaux,  and  who  can  prevent  it  ?" 

"But  can't  you  send  her  to  some  coiivent^school  for  a  year 


THE      SPRITE      IN      THE      CONVENT.       223 

or  two,  until  we  are  settled  again  at  Lnckenough,  or  until  she 
is  old  enough  to  be  married  ?"  suggested  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  meekly 
and  whimperingly. 

"  To  a  convent-school — I  never  thought  of  that  before — let 
me  see  now — yes!  I  think  that  will  do — the  life  is  very  se- 
cluded, and  the  discipline  very  strict.  Yes !  that  is  very  good. 
She  shall  go  and  stay  a  year,  and  then  she  shall  come  out  and 
marry  Grim'.  That  is  excellent !  Really,  Mary,  when  you're 
put  to  it  you  have  got  more  sense  than  anybody  would  think ! 
I'll  go  and  talk  to  Grim'  about  it!" 

And,  leaving  the  two  ladies  alone,  the  Commodore  went  in 
quest  of  Doctor  Grimshaw,  whom,  after  a  long  search,  he  found 
v/alking  up  and  down  a  secluded  avenue  of  the  lawn  in  much 
disturbance  of  mind.  Perhaps  of  all  her  friends  who  had  been 
present  at  the  mock  tournament,  Doctor  Grimshaw  had  been 
the  most  severely  shocked  and  scandalized  by  the  feats  of  his 
betrothed.  Yet  now  that  the  Commodore  addressed  him,  and, 
walking  up  and  down  with  him,  explained  his  plans  in  regard 
to  Jacquelina,  Grim'  shook  his  head.  He  did  not  like  to  part 
with  his  favorite — did  not  know  what  they  should  do  without 
her  at  home,  and  did  not  believe  it  safe  to  send  her  to  a 
nuniKry. 

"Do  you  know  the  partridge  never  can  be  tamed,  and  dies  if 
it  is  caged  ?  My  fairy  love  is  like  the  partridge.  If  she  is  put 
in  the  convent  she  will  drive  the  sisters  mad,  or  break  her  own 
heart.  Don't  send  her  away.  Wait  till  we  are  married.  I  am 
sure  I  can  reform  her,  and  make  her  happy  also." 

"Yes!  but  I  tell  you,"  said  the  Commodore,  "that  unless 
you  consent  to  part  with  her  for  a  time,  you  may  never  marry 
her!  Where  we  are  going  to  live  it  will  be  impossible  to 
separate  her  from  young  people  of  her  own  age,  even  from 
Tlmrston  Willcoxen,  and  what  would  you  think  now  if  I  should 
tell  you  that  already  her  fancy  has  been  touched  by  that  young 
man  from  merely  seeing  him  at  church?" 

Doctor  Grimshaw  started  and  changed  color — jealousy  had 
^ntered  his  heart  for  the  first  time — jealousy  of  the  elegant 
'"kurston  Willcoxen. 


224  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"He  must  not  be  permitted  to  form  her  acquaintance!  He 
must  not  be  permitted  to  enter  the  house  where  she  lives !" 

"I  should  like  to  know  how  that's  to  be  prevented  while  we 
are  bearding,  unless  I  send  her  to  school  as  I  purposed." 

"  Something  else  must  be  thought  of.  I  cannot  lose  her  so- 
ciety. And  I  cannot  consent  that  she  shall  suffer  constraint. 
We  must  find  some  other  plan." 

While  Doctor  Grimshaw  was  thus  pleading  the  cause  of  his 
elfish  love,  a  waiter  approached  and  handed  him  a  little  tri- 
angular note.  His  sallow  face  flushed  when  he  saw  that  it  was 
from  Jacquelina.  It  contained  the  following  flattering  pro- 
position :  That — as  her  mother  and  her  aunty  had  declined 
b*ung  present  at  the  fancy  ball  of  that  evening,  and  had  de- 
termined that  she  should  not  appear  unless  escorted  by  Doctor 
Grimshaw — therefore  she  bad  decided  upon  taking  a  character 
which  would  afford  him  a  fitting  opportunity  of  attending  her 
in  costume — she  should  appear  as  Beauty  in  the  fairy  tale  of 
"Beauty  and  the  Beast."  Would  he  therefore  please  to  come 
as  the  Be^ast  ?  She  had  selected  this,  she  said,  in  consideration 
of  his  convenience,  because  it  would  require  so  little  modifica- 
tion of  his  usual  appearance  and  manner.  If  he  did  not  like 
that,  however — would  he  be  Yulcan  to  her  Venus?  She 
Dffered  him  the  choice ;  she  only  wished  to  please  him,  she  was 
sure. 

Dr.  Grimshaw  was  not  unaccustomed  to  this  style  of  com- 
pliment from  the  highly  provoked  and  equally  provoking  fairy. 
And  previous  to  this  day  he  had  received  her  witty  jibes  and 
taunts  and  sarcasms  with  a  patience  and  philosophy  which  was 
not  without  some  natural  dignity,  as  if  he  had  felt  that  a  man 
of  his  years  and  learning,  and  highly  respectable  standing  in 
church  and  state,  must  not  suffer  himself  to  be  disturbed  by  the 
quaint  petulance  of  an  elf.  But  now  his  bosom  was  vulnerable, 
for  his  heart  was  sore  with  new-felt  jealousy — jealousy  of  the 
all-praised  Thurstou  Willcoxen.  And  he  felt  her  shafts  keenly. 
At  any  time  before  this,  he  would  have  borne  his  suffering  in 
silence;  now,  stung  by  jealousy,  he  cried  out  bitterly — 


T  IT  E      SPRITE      IN      THE      CONVENT.        225 

"Yes!  Beast!  Vulcan!  Ogre!  Afrit!  Gnome!  Ghonl ! 
Goblin!  Nightmare!  Vampire!  Warlock!  Giraffe!  Griffin! 
Dragon!  Leprehaun!  Kelpie!  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  I  Her  vo- 
cabulary of  abuse  is  inexhaustible,  and  these  are  the  Jove  namea 
,shv  calls  me  by  !" 

"In  the  name  of  all  the  demons,  Grim',  what  the  d — 1  doei 
ail  you?  What  the  furies  are  you  driving  at?"  exclaimed  the 
Commodore,  with  his  great  round  eyes  staring  with  all  their 
might  at  his  excited  companion. 

At  another  time,  Dr.  Grimshaw  would  have  concealed  the 
tricks  of  his  elfish  love,  and  so  shielded  her  from  her  uncle's 
wrath.  But  jealousy  is  as  mean  and  spiteful  in  some  stages,  as 
it  is  terrible  and  remorseless  in  others.  It  is  said  to  be  "as 
cruel  as  the  grave ;"  it  is  also  loathsome-  as  the  worm  that 
battens  therein.  He  passed  Jacquelina's  little  squib  of  a  note 
to  the  Commodore,  where  it  acted  like  a  lighted  match  thrown 
into  a  barrel  of  gunpowder.  The  old  soldier  exploded  into  fury  ; 
abusing  the  poor  fairy  without  measure,  calling  her  names  that 
would  never  bear  repetition  here,  and  swearing  horribly  profane 
oaths  that  he  would  send  her  to  the  nunnery,  where  she  should 
remain  until  she  knew  how  to  behave  herself.  And  as  to  the 
fancy  ball  of  that  night,  she  should  not  appear  at  it  at  all,  in 
any  character  or  under  any  escort  whatever.  She  should,  on 
the  contrary,  keep  her  own  chamber,  where  she  would  have 
leisure  to  repent  of  her  wickedness,  he  reckoned.  But  for 
the  Commodore  to  reckon  without  Jacquelina  in  anything  that 
materially  concerned  herself,  was  not  safe. 

It  is  true  he  put  his  threat  in  execution — and  locked  the  poor 
elf  up  in  her  room,  and  took  away  the  key,  lest  some  one  should 
release  her.  But  Jacquelina  laughed  at  his  cunning,  and  with 
the  point  of  her  scissors,  inserted  between  the  lock  and  the 
catch,  easily  turned  back  the  bolt  and  set  herself  at  liberty. 

And  that  evening,  in  the  midst  of  the  fancy  ball,  when  every- 
body had  seen  everybody  else,  and  curiosity  was  satisfied,  and 
the  excitement  apparently  over,  a  great  sensation  was  created 
by  the  sudden  rising  of  a  new  star,  who  was  announced  as  the 


226  THE      M  I  f  «  I  N  -2      BRIDE. 

Elfin  Princess  Maligna — who  never  unmasked,  but  in  the  course 
of  the  evening  contrived  to  set  more  people  by  the  ears  to- 
gether, and  excite  more  lover's  quarrels,  and  cause  more  sur- 
prises, and  panics,  and  starts  and  tremors,  than  had  probably 
ever  afflicted  any  one  night,  since  "  the  morning  and  the  even- 
ing were  the  first  day."  And  at  cock-crow  she  vanished.  No 
one  could  have  sworn  to  the  identity,  but  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  Jacquelina  to  have  proved  an  alibi  during  the 
hours  passed  by  the  Elfin  Princess  at  the  fancy  ball. 

The  next  morning  the  fay  was  cited  to  appear  before  the 
family  court,  which  held  its  session  in  the  private  parlor.  And 
there  she  was  informed  of  her  doom,  to  be  sent  to  the  nunnery 
to  school  for  one  year. 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  Jacquelina  received  this  sentence  with 
great  calmness — only  her  eyes  were  really  flashing  beneath  their 
demure  lids,  her  lips  were  puckered  up  with  a  suppressed  smile, 
and  her  whole  form  and  face  were  instinct  with  the  concealed 
anticipation  of  some  unprecedented  mischief  and  delicious  fun. 

Oh !  she  was  willing  to  go  to  the  nunnery,  certainly !  there 
was  nothing  she  would  like  better  or  so  well  1  And  so  it  was 
settled. 

The  season  at  Bentley  was  now  over.  The  visitors  in  num- 
bers were  leaving.  And  the  family  of  Luckenough  prepared 
to  follow  their  example. 

They  returned  to  the  lodgings  at  B ,  where  they  were 

once  more  settled  by  the  middle  of  September.  Preparations 
were  then  commenced  for  the  outfit  of  Jacquelina.  Her  mother 
wept  incessantly  at  the  thought  of  parting  from  her  darling 
though  willful  child,  from  whom  she  had  never  been  separated 
in  her  life.  Jacquelina  sought  to  comfort  her. 

"  Don't  fret,  Mimmy ;  Pll  be  back  in  a  week!"  she  said,  mys- 
teriously. 

"Not  so  soon  as  that,  my  dear,  I  know.  But,  oh  !  Jacky,  I 
never  loved  but  you  ;  and  I  do  hope  that  your  conduct  will  be 
so  exemplary  that  your  uncle  will  soon  shorten  the  term  of 
your  imprisonment,  and  recall  you.  For  I  know  that  if  he  hears 


THE      SPRITE      IN      THE      CONVENT.       227 

good  reports  of  you  from  the  sisters,  he  will  sacrifice  the  price 
of  the  whole  term,  and  bring  you  home  before  it  is  over ;  for, 
with  all  his  faults,  he  is  not  stingy." 

"  No,  indeed !  And  never  you  mind,  Mimmy,  my  conduct 
shall  be  such  that  I  will  return  in  a  week!" 

"  I  hope  so,  indeed,  my  love ;  but  it  will  not  be  quite  so  soon 
as  that,  I  fear!" 

"  Oh,  Mimmy,  you  always  fear  something  !  I  tell  you  /  shall 
behave  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  brought  back  in  a  week!" 

"Well,  my  love,  may  be  so;  but  I  fear  your  old  uncle  wont 
trust  so  sudden  a  reform  as  that !" 

The  convent-school  selected  for  Jacquelina,  was  that  of  St. 
Serena,  situated  on  Mount  Serena,  in  a  distant,  hilly,  and  highly 
picturesque  county.  The  day  of  her  departure  arrived,  and 
with  many  tears  the  members  of  the  family  took  leave  of  Jac- 
quelina, who,  with  ill  suppressed  mirth  and  mischief  peeping  out 
from  under  her  downcast  eyelids,  and  out  of  the  corners  of  her 
pursed  up  lips,  entered  the  carriage  with  her  uncle,  and  com- 
menced her  journey.  The  afternoon  of  the  second  day  brought 
them  near  their  journey's  end. 

There  is  not  in  all  the  south  a  more  beautiful  country  than 
that  which  surrounds  the  convent  whose  name  I  shall  purposely 
veil  under  that  of  Mount  St.  Serena.  It  is  broken,  hilly,  and 
mountainous,  clothed  with  fine  forests,  watered  by  crystal 
streams,  and  varied  by  rocks,  caverns  and  waterfalls. 

A  road  through  this  highly  picturesque  scenery,  running  now 
by  the  side  of  a  forest-shaded  river,  now  under  the  shadow  of 
gome  extended  cliff;  winding  now  around  the  base  of  some 
wooded  hill,  and  now  through  the  tortuous  defile  of  some  moun- 
tain pass,  brought  our  travelers  finally  within  the  precincts  of 
the  convent  grounds. 

A  carriage  drive  through  a  fine  piece  of  woods  led  them  to 
the  banks  of  the  narrow,  rock-bound,  forest-shaded,  beautiful 
rn  -:r,  St.  Serena,  where  a  ferry  boat  waited  to  take  them  across. 

Upon  the  rising  ground  on  the  opposite  side,  in  the  midst  of 
a  grove  of  trees,  gleamed  the  white  walls  and  chimneys  of  the 


'228  TJE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

convent  buildings.  The  main  building,  and  all  the  lesser  ones 
dependent  upon  it,  were  in  the  pure  and  elegant  style  of  Gre- 
cian architecture.  The  grounds  around  them  were  highly  im- 
proved and  adorned  with  artificial  lakes,  grottos,  groves,  groups 
of  statuary,  arbors,  shaded  walks,  and  everything  that  wealth 
in  the  hands  of  taste  could  procure  to  perfect  them  in  beauty 
and  pleasure.  And  surrounding  all  was  the  undulating,  hilly 
and  mountainous  country  that  I  have  described. 

The  carriage  containing  our  travelers  entered  the  ferry  boat, 
and  was  poled  across  the  river. 

Passing  up  a  gentle  ascent,  they  entered  by  a  handsome  gate 
upon  a  graveled  and  elm-shaded  drive,  that  conducted  them  up 
to  the  front  of  the  convent — a  handsome,  white  granite  front, 
with  a  portico  supported  by  light  Ionic  columns,  running  the 
whole  width. 

Here  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  Commodore  alighted, 
followed  by  Jacquelina,  whom  he  led  up  the  marble  stairs  to 
the  main  entrance. 

The  door  stood  wide  open,  and  at  once  they  entered  the  hall, 
across  which,  about  six  feet  before  them,  stretched  an  iron  gra- 
ting, behind  which  sat  a  closely-veiled  nun,  with  a  great  key — 
this  was  the  porteress  of  the  nunnery. 

The  old  Commodore,  keeping  a  respectful  distance,  bowed 
low  and  explained  his  business,  and  requested  to  see  the  Mother 
Superior. 

The  porteress,  without  raising  her  veil,  merely  pointed  to  a 
door  on  their  side  of  the  grating,  and  on  the  left  of  the  hall. 

The  Commodore  bowed  again,  and  conducted  Jacquelina 
through  that  door  into  a  plainly  but  neatly  furnished  parlor, — . 
across  the  centre  of  which,  from  side  to  side,  and  from  floor  to 
ceiling,  ran  the  same  iron  grating. 

Silently  behind  the  grating  appeared  the  shadow  of  the  Lady 
Superior.  She  was  a  comely  and  benignant  looking  woman,  of 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  so  pleasant  that 
its  tones  haunted  the  ear  for  days  afterwards. 

As  everything  had  been  pre-arranged  by  an  opistolary  cor- 


THE      SPRITE      IX      THE      CONVENT.        229 

rcspondence  between  herself  and  Commodore  Wangh,  there  was 
now  nothing  to  do  but  to  deliver  Jacqueliua  into  her  hands,  and 
take  leave. 

The  Commodore's  heart  sank  lower  and  lower  as  the  instant 
of  departure  hastened  on.  He  detained  his  little  "  Minx"  as 
long  as  possible — he  would  even  now  have  gladly  taken  her 
back  with  him,  had  such  a  step  been  advisable  for  the  pros- 
perity of  his  private  plans — he  wished  to  gather  her  to  his  bo- 
som and  kiss  her  fondly — but  he  durst  not  do  so  within  those 
holy  walls,  or  in  that  holy  presence ;  so,  pressing  her  hand,  and 
bidding  her  "  be  a  good  girl,"  and  finally  kissing  her  cheek  in 
the  most  decorous  manner,  he  took  leave  and  departed,  bitterly 
regretting  the  untoward  fate  that  compelled  him  to  leave  his 
"  Monkey"  in  "  that  gloomy  prison,"  as  he  chose  to  miscall  the 
most  beautiful  and  enchanting  place  under  the  sun. 

Never  distress  yourself,  Commodore!  It  would  be  difficult 
or  impossible  to  reduce  Jacquelina  to  a  strait  from  which  she 
could  not  deliver  herself  just  as  soon  as  she  pleased.  And 
while  you  are  bemoaning  her  fate  as  you  roll  along  towards 
home,  her  little  head  is  busy  in  the  devising  of  new  mischief, 
which  shall  make  you  lament  and  deplore  with  much  better  rea- 
son than  you  do  now.  As  the  Mother  Superior  led  Jacquelina 
along,  she  addressed  her  in  a  pleasant  voice,  saying, 

"  My  dear,  are  you  fatigued,  and  would  you  like  to  go  to 
the  dormitory  and  lie  down  ?" 

"  No,  mother,  I  am  not  the  least  tired." 

"  This  is  the  recreation  hour,  and  the  pupils,  your  future 
companions,  are  in  the  back  lawn,  amusing  themselves;  per- 
haps you  would  like  to  join  them  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

The  lady  then  conducted  Jacquelina  through  the  great  hall, 
down  the  back  stairs,  and  out  into  the  back  lawn — where  a 
peerless  vision  of  beauty  burst  upon  the  sight  of  the  yoiu.g 
girl. 

If  the  grounds  in  front  of  the  house  were  admirably  laid  out 
and  adorned,  those  at  the  back  were  far  more  charming  fi^iu 


230  THE      MISSING     BRIDE. 

natural  beauty.  In  the  midst  was  a  small  crystal  lake,  or 
pond,  half  surrounded  by  trees ;  green  mounds  and  groves  of 
trees  stood  here  and  there ;  and  rocks  and  ravines,  and  banks 
of  wild  flowers  and  parterres  of  cultivated  plants,  diversified 
the  scene.  These  grounds  were  terminated  by  or  rather  ran 
into  a  fine  piece  of  woods  that  climbed  up  the  sides  of  steep 
hills. 

Here  were  assembled  about  one  hundred  young  girls  from 
the  ages  of  seven  to  seventeen — engaged  in  various  amuse- 
ments. Some  were  skipping  ropes,  some  trundling  hoops, 
some  swinging,  some  mounted  on  Shetland  ponies  were  pacing 
around  the  outskirts  of  the  grounds,  and  some  were  in  little 
boats  rowed  by  the  nuns  upon  the  lake — while  others  of  quieter 
temperaments,  were  cultivating  the  flowers  in  the  parterres,  or 
gathered  under  the  shade  of  trees,  were  dressing  dolls  or  tell- 
ing stories. 

"  Young  ladies,"  said  the  Mother  Superior,  as  she  appeared 
with  Jacquelina,  "  this  is  Miss  L'Oiseau,  of  St.  Mary  county. 
I  hope  that  you  will  make  her  welcome,  and  make  her  feel  at 
home  among  you." 

Then  calling  one  or  two  girls  of  about  Jacquelina's  own  age, 
she  introduced  her  to  them,  and  left  her  in  their  care. 

But  our  fairy  scarcely  needed  their  introduction  and  patron- 
age ;  wherever  there  was  youth  and  high  spirits  to  be  excited, 
or  dullness  to  be  exasperated,  or  mischief  in  any  shape  or  form 
to  be  done,  there  was  Jacquelina  "  at  home." 

And  soon  the  sprite  had  thrown  herself  like  yeast  into  the 
crowd  of  young  folks,  and  soon  the  whole  mass  was  rising  in  a 
state  of  fermentation.  The  swings  flew  higher,  the  skipping- 
ropes  turned  faster,  the  Shetland  ponies  no  longer  paced,  but 
galloped,  reared  and  pranced  with  their  riders,  and  the  little 
skiffs  no  longer  floated  gently,  but  dashed  and  splashed  among 
r.he  sparkling  waters,  as  if  a  whole  shoal  of  water  nymphs  were 
at  play,  until  the  nuns  who  rowed,  assured  their  romping  pas- 
sengers that  if  they  did  not  cease  their  sports,  they  would  upset 
the  boats.  Even  the  quiet  girls  who  had  hitherto  found  e.\. 


APPARITION     IN     THE     DORMITORY.       231 

citement  enough  in  tending  flowers  and  dressing  dolls,  or  tell- 
ing stories,  now  arose  and  contended  with  the  others  for  the 
possession  of  the  swings  and  skipping-ropes.  In  a  word,  the 
whole  pleasure  grounds  were  in  a  state  of  irrepressible  effer- 
vescence, when  the  supper-bell  rang  and  three  or  four  Sisters 
came  out  to  marshal  the  girls  to  the  refectory. 

When  supper  was  over,  the  crowd  separated  into  their 
class-rooms,  for  the  evening  studies,  after  which  they  prepared 
to  go  to  their  various  dormitories. 


CHAPTER   XYIII. 

APPARITION       IN      THE       DORMITORY. 
»'  Art  thou  a  MAN."— Macbeth. 

JACQUELINA  was  assigned  a  place  among  the  elder  girls, 
whom  she  accompanied  to  their  sleeping  apartment,  which  was 
situated  on  the  second  floor. 

Nothing  in  the  convent  that  I  have  already  described,  excelled 
this  place  in  beauty  and  purity  of  aspect ;  it  seemed  the  very 
temple  of  Vesta — the  innermost  sanctuary  of  youth,  beauty,  and 
innocence 

It  was  a  long  room,  with  snowy  walls  and  ceiling  and  floor — 
flanked  by  two  rows  of  windows,  with  snowy  linen  blinds — fur- 
nished with  two  rows  of  white  beds,  and  their  heads  to  the 
wall  between  the  windows,  and  each  closed  in  with  curtains  of 
white  dimity. 

Now,  standing  at  the  entrance  of  this  pure  sanctuary,  look 
up  the  clear  vista  between  the  lines  of  snowy  beds  to  the  oppo- 
site extremity  of  the  room,  and  see  a  beautiful  arched  shrine, 


232  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

feiled  with  the  most  delicate  lace,  which  festoons  each  side,  re* 
veal,  within,  a  life-like  image  of  the  Virgin,  in  white  robes, 
with  her  meek  hands  crossed  upon  her  sinless  bosom,  and  her 
meek  eyes  bent  as  in  thought.  Some  young  girl's  devotion  has 
place  1  upon  her  brow  a  wreath  of  fresh,  fragrant,  white  roses. 
To  a  poetic  eye  she  seems  to  stand  there  the  guardian  of  the 
slumbers  of  pure  and  beautiful  young  girlhood. 

In  the  corners,  to  the  extreme  right  and  left  of  the  Tirgin's 
shrine,  stood  the  bedsteads  occupied  by  the  two  nuns  who  had 
charge  of  this  dormitory,  and  the  young  girls  who  slept  in  it. 
These  beds  differed  in  no  respect  from  those  of  the  pupils,  ex- 
cept they  were  a  little  larger. 

Of  the  two  duenna-nuns,  Sister  Agnes  was  a  middle-aged  lady, 
of  severe  and  stately  presence  and  stern  rule. 

Sister  Rose  was  a  woman  of  twenty-five,  with  a  fresh,  girlish 
countenance,  and  a  pleasant  smile  and  voice. 

When  Jacquelina  was  first  introduced  into  this  sweet,  pure, 
peaceful  retreat,  she  felt  a  sudden  sharp  pang — a  sense  of  some- 
thing unquiet,  inhuman,  elfish  in  her  nature,  at  variance  with 
the  beautiful  character  of  the  scene — some  discord  at  war  with 
this  harmony — some  chaos  incompatible  with  this  order — some 
evil,  in  short,  that  she  wished  was  not  there. 

Quietly  each  girl  went  within  her  own  curtains  to  undress  and 
go  to  bed.  A  few  only  gathered  around  the  smiling  Sister 
Rose  for  a  good-night  kiss.  Some  of  the  most  warm-hearted 
and  demonstrative,  threw  their  arms  around  the  beloved  Sister 
and  embraced  her  cordially. 

But  the  stern  Sister  Agnes  frowned  upon  such  freedoms,  which 
she  declared  appertained  to  "  inordinate  and  sinful  affections  of 
the  flesh." 

Tins  drew  upon  her  the  lightning  flash  of  Jacquelina's  eyes, 
and,  alas!  put  to  flight  all  the  fairy's  redeeming  thoughts,  and 
inspired  her  with  a  project  of  mischief  which  she  resolved  to 
put  in  execution,  for  the  benefit  of  sour  Sister  Agnes,  that  very 
night.  It  was  an  unpardonable  piece  of  diablerie,  for  which  I 
can  offer  no  palliation,  except  that  the  poor  elf  was  on  the  hitro 


APPARITION     IN     THE     DORMITORY.       233 

road  to  destruction,  with  not  one  wise  friend  to  intervene  and 
save  her.  And  when  you  are  inclined  to  severely  blarne  poor 
Sans  Souci,  remember  her  educators. 

At  last,  all  the  young  creatures  were  in  bed,  with  their  cur- 
tains drawn  around  them — all  except  Jacquelina. 

"  Why  don't  you  retire,  my  love  ?"  inquired  Sister  Rose. 

"Because  I  haven't  got  my  night-clothes,"  said  Jacquelina. 

"  Haven't  got  your  night-clothes — why  how  is  that,  my  dear, 
where  are  they  ?" 

11  Packed  up  in  my  trunk,  wherever  that  may  be." 

'  Oh !  yes,  to  be  sure.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear.  It  was 
my  business  to  have  attended  to  this — but  I  really  forgot  it.  I 
often  do  forget  things.  Come  with  me,  my  dear,  into  the  ware- 
room  ;  your  trunk  is  there,"  said  Sister  Rose,  taking  up  a  taper, 
and  leading  the  way. 

They  passed  down  a  long  passage,  at  the  other  end  of  which 
was  the  door  leading  into  the  wardrobe  wareroom,  where  the 
clothing  of  the  girls  in  this  dormitory  was  kept,  and  where 
Jacquelina's  trunk  remained  as  yet  unpacked. 

They  entered,  and  while  Sister  Rose  stood  with  her  eyes  bent 
upon  the  ground,  pattering  an  Ave,  Jacquelina  knelt  and  un- 
locked her  trunk,  took  from  it  a  night-dress  and  another  suit, 
(of  which  more  anon,)  and  wrapping  them  together  in  a  tight 
bundle,  locked  her  trunk  again,  and  arose  to  her  feet. 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  have  a  large  bundle  there,  my  dear," 
said  the  Sister. 

"Yes,  I  have  other  garments  besides  the  night-dress,"  said 
Jacquelina. 

"Ah,  yes!  I  suppose,  after  traveling  you  need  a  change. 
That  is  all  right,  under  the  circumstances.  But  hereafter,  mj 
dear,  remember  that  the  pupils  change  only  on  Sundays  and 
Wednesdays,  and  on  those  mornings  you  will  find  clean  clothes 
laid  out  upon  your  bed,"  said  the  Sister,  and  taking  her  taper, 
she  paced  soberly  along,  leading  the  way  back  to  the  dormitory, 
and  followed  by  Jacquelina. 

When   they   entered   it,    Sister   Rose   walked  up   and   sat 


234  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

her  wax  taper  before  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin,  where  it  was 
intended  to  burn  all  night.  Then  she  pointed  out  to  Jacque- 
lina  the  bed  she  was  to  occupy,  drew  her  up,  and  kissed  her 
cheek,  saying, 

"Good-night,  love.  I  hope  you  will  be  happy  with  us.  I 
hope  you  will  sleep  well.  You  mustn't  be  home-sick.  All  of  us 
are  separated  from  our  parents  and  friends  here,  but  we  are 
very  happy — as  you  will  be  after  a  few  days.  Good-night,  and 
pleasant  dreams  to  you,  dear  1" 

And  the  kind  Sister  kissed  her  once  again,  and  let  go  her  hand. 

And  Jacquelina  felt  a  twinge  of  compunction  as  she  took 
herself  aud  her  mysterious  bundle  within  her  own  curtains. 
She  undressed  and  laid  herself  down,  to  wait  until  she  should 
be  reasonably  sure  that  everybody  in  the  room  was  asleep,  be- 
fore commencing  operations. 

Occasionally  she  peeped  out  between  her  curtains — how 
sweet  and  calm  and  pure  was  the  aspect  of  the  room,  with  its 
score  of  slumbering  beauties,  and  the  sleepless  eyes  of  the 
Virgin  watching  over  them !  Oh,  elfin  Jacquelina,  how  could 
you  bring  wild  confusion  and  dismay  into  such  a  sweet  and 
peaceful  scene  ? 

She  lay  back  upon  her  pillow,  anxiously  listening,  until  they 
should  all  be  locked  in  the  arms  of  slumber. 

Occasionally  was  heard  the  soft  rustling  of  some  young  crea- 
ture in  her  bed,  like  the  fluttering  of  some  young  bird  in  its 
nest.  But  soon  all  these  sounds  ceased.  The  fair  sleepers 
were  all  in  the  land  of  fairy  dreams. 

But  it  seemed  to  Jacquelina  that  the  sour  Sister  never  would 
go  to  sleep — that  she  found  no  more  favor  in  the  eyes  Mor- 
pheus, than  of  any  other  man.  She  sighed,  and  turned  to  the 
right,  and  then  grunted  and  turned  to  the  left;  and  she  "Ah, 
me"-ed  and  "Oh,  dear"-ed  until  the  elf  thought  surely  sht 
must  be  suffering  under  that  which  is  said  to  be  the  only 
real  misery — great  pain  of  body  or  remorse  of  mind.  But  it 
was  neither  of  these  things — it  was  only  the  sleeplessness 
caused  by  that  good  friend  or  bitter  enemy,  "green  tea!" — 


APPARITION     IN     THE     DORMITORY.       235 

Mint  real  and  only  "  green-eyed  monster"  extant.  At  length, 
however,  Sister  Agnes  was  also  sound  asleep,  as  was  proved  by 
her  deep  and  regular  breathing. 

And  Jacquelina  peeped  out  between  her  curtains,  and  seeing 
everything  still,  and  the  Virgin  herself  looking  sweetly  placid, 
as  i  she  did  not  deem  much  harm  in  her  wild  child's  frolic, 
she  drew  in  her  little  mischief-brewing  head,  and  commenced 
operations. 

Sitting  up  there  in  bed,  she  took  off  her  night-cap  and  parted 
her  hair  in  boyish  style  on  one  side,  letting  the  short,  bright, 
yellow  curls  cluster  around  her  broad,  fair  forehead.  Then  she 
laid  aside  her  night-wrapper,  and  dressed  herself  in  that  other 
suit  aforesaid,  which  was  no  other  than  Cloudy's  parade  uni- 
form! And  lastly,  she  set  the  gold-laced  and  tasseled  cap 
jauntily  upon  her  shining  curls. 

And  then  she  emerged  from  her  hiding-place,  and  stood  up, 
as  charming  looking  a  little  officer  as  could  be  seen  on  a  sunny 
day's  review!  All  alive  with  mischief,  she  stood  in  the  midst 
of  the  vista  between  the  rows  of  snowy-curtained  beds,  and  be- 
fore the  white-veiled  shrine  of  the  Virgin,  thinking  whom  she 
should  first  startle  out  of  their  sleep,  and  out  of  their  wits,  by  a 
kiss  1  She  soon  made  up  her  mind,  and  with  her  eyes  twinkling 
roguishly,  she  tripped  softly  up  the  vista  to  the  right-hand  corner 
bed,  occupied  by  Sister  Rose,  and  stood  over  the  pretty  slum- 
berer. 

How  serene  and  sweet  she  seemed,  with  her  fair  cheeks 
slightly  flushed  by  sleep,  and  one  soft,  white  hand  pressing  the 
crucifix  lovingly,  unconsciously  to  her  softer,  whiter  bosom. 

Jacquelina's  heart  warmed  towards  her — she  really  wished 
now,  not  for  "fun,"  but  for  love,  to  stoop  and  kiss  her  as  she  lay ! 
But  in  that  dress  I  Even  elfish  Jacko  hesitated  to  do  it,  hesita- 
ted to  shock  that  pure  and  gentle  bosom!  So 'she  stood  for  a 
minute  smiling  on  her.  But  the  temptation  to  make  mischief 
was  too  great,  and  bending  over  her,  she  kissed  her — softly  as  a 
butterfly  lights  upon  a  flower,  Sans  Souci's  lips  touched  sleep- 
iug  Hose's 


236  THE      MISSING      B  It  I  D  E  . 

Rosa  awoke,  and  opened  her  sweet  eves  calmly  enough,  but 
seeing,  as  she  supposed,  a  young  officer  standing  gazing  upon 
her,  she  gave  one  wild,  wild  shriek,  and  covered  up  her  head, 
where  she  lay  trembling,  like  a  captured  bird. 

That  shriek  had  roused  all  the  sleepers. 

Jacquelina  dipped  suddenly  down,  and  darting  along  close  to 
the  floor,  reached  the  inside  of  her  curtains,  when  she  quickly 
nnd  quietly  drew  her  wrapper  over  the  uniform,  hid  the  gold 
laced  cap  under  her  pillow,  and  replaced  it  by  her  night-cap, 
slipped  into  bed,  drew  the  counterpane  closely  under  her  chin, 
and  shut  her  eyes,  as  in  a  deep  sleep. 

In  the  meantime,  all  was  confusion  in  the  dormitory.  Every 
girl  was  out  of  bed,  trembling  with  undefined  terror,  and  asking 
everybody  what  was  the  matter.  Sister  Agnes  was  up  also, 
and  scolding  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  And  poor  Rose  was  cry- 
ing, and  lamenting,  and  wringing  her  hands. 

Jacquelina  now  ventured  to  peep  through  her  curtains — there 
stood  Sister  Rose,  with  flushed  cheeks,  and  wild,  tearful  eyes, 
twisting  her  fingers,  and  weeping,  and  protesting,  and  there 
gathered  the  flock  of  girls  in  their  night-dresses  and  bare  feet, 
and  there  stood  Sister  Agnes  laying  down  the  law. 

"  Was  ever  such  a  distraction  !  What  can  you  think  of  your- 
self, Sister  Rose,  to  rouse  all  the  school  out  of  their  beds  with 
such  a  shriek  as  that!  How  do  you  know  but  you've  wakened 
the  pupils  in  the  other  dormitories,  too  ?  And  the  Mother 
Superior,  for  aught  we  know!" 

"Oh  !  indeed,  indeed  it  wasn't  my  fault!     Indeed  it  wasn't!" 

"It  was  your  fault!  If  you  had  been  thinking  more  of 
your  aves  and  paters,  and  less  of  vanities,  you  would  not  have 
dreamed  of  seeing  a one  of  those  creatures !" 

"  Oh !  It  was  a  man,  it  was  a  man  !  Indeed,  indeed  it  was 
a  man!  It  wa£  a  live  man,  and  no  dream!  I  never  dream  of 
those  beings !  Holy  Yirgin  !  no — Heaven  forbid !" 

"You  have  dreamed!  Why,  you  must  be  still  dreaming ! 
Arc  you  crazy  ?  Man  indeed  1  St.  Mary !  I'm  shocked  at  you  I 
It  is  really  indecent!  How  could  one  of  those  affairs  get  in? 


APPARITION     IN     TItfi     DORMITORY.       237 

Where  could  he  hide  ?  I  believe  you've  lost  your  reason !  Yoa 
must  think  a  great  deal  about  such — persons  1  The  truth  is, 
you're  too  hearty!  I've  noticed  it  along  time!  you  eat  too 
much,  and  that  is  the  reason  you  have  had  dreams!  You  shall 
keep  a  strict  fast  to-morrow,  and  after  this  you  shall  fast  three 
times  a  week,  until  you  have  somewhat  mortified  the  pride  of  your 
flesh.  And  if  that  don't  do,  and  if  we  are  disturbed  by  any 
more  of  your  dreams  and  outcries,  I  shall  have  you  deposed  from 
your  place  here  in  the  dormitory,  and  sent  back  to  your  cell ! 
And  I'll  speak  to  Mother  Ethelle  about  it  to-morrow !  A  pretty 
example  for  these  girls !  Xow,  young  ladies,  return,  every  one 
of  you,  to  your  beds,  and  let  no  more  hysterical  shrieks,  from 
any  one,  bring  you  out  of  them !  And,  Sister  Rose,  do  you 
return  to  yours,  and  be  sure  to  repeat  one  hundred  Ave  Marias 
and  Our  Fathers  before  you  venture  to  close  your  eyes !"  said 
the  angry  Sister  Agnes. 

Some  of  the  girls  turned  to  seek  once  more  their  pillows. 
But  Rose  caught  the  robe  of  Sister  Agnes,  and  said, 

"  Oh,  Sister !  pray,  pray  have  the  room  searched !  There  was  a 
man  in  it!" 

"  Have  done  with  such  sinful  fancies !"  exclaimed  Sister  Agues, 
angrily. 

"  Oh,  Holy  Virgin  !  will  nothing  convince  her  ?  And  are  we 
all  to  go  to  bed  while  there  is  such  a  monster  in  the  room  I" 

"  You  certainly  are  frantic  !  You  want  blood-letting !  Will 
you  look  around  now  upon  those  well-secured  windows,  and 
that  double-locked  door,  and  tell  me,  even  supposing  such 
a  creature  could  possibly  get  through  the  outer  grate,  how  it 
could  get  in  here,  or  being  in,  where  it  could  hide,  or  how  it 
could  get  out?  You're  a  fool,  Sister  Rose!  St.  Mary  for- 
give me!" 

But  Sister  Rose  persisted  that  she  had  spoken  the  truth,  and 
pleaded  so  earnestly  to  have  the  room  searched,  that  all  the 
young  girls,  with  one  accord,  flitted  out  of  their  beds  like  birds 
from  their  nests,  and  looked  underneath  them — looked  every- 
where— went  to  Miss  L'Oiseau's  bed  and  looked  under  that, 
then  peeped  between  her  curtains  to  see  how  soimdiy  she  slept. 
15 


238  THE      MISSING      BREDE. 

"  Tired  to  death  with  her  long  journey,  poor  thing,"  they  said, 
softly  closing  her  curtains  again. 

"Yes,  young  ladies!"  said  Sister  Agnes,  severely,  "Miss 
L'Oiseau  is  an  example  to  you !  You  don't  see  her  starting  up 
out  of  her  bed  at  this  unholy  hour  of  the  night,  to  assist  iu 
raising  a  confusion  1  And  I  hope  that  in  future  you  will  profit 
by  her  example  1  And  now,  young  ladies,  that  you  have  proved 
for  yourselves  that  there  is  nothing  in  this  dormitory,  more  sin- 
ful and  dangerous  than  your  own  follies,  I  hope  that  you  will 
go  quietly  to  bed,  and  stay  there.  And  as  for  you,  Sister  Rose, 
I  shall  remember  to  do  to-morrow  as  I  said  !" 

And,  frowning  and  angry,  Sister  Agnes  retired  to  her  couch. 

And,  laughing  unmercifully  at  Sister  Rose  and  her  graphic 
dream,  the  girls  retired  to  theirs. 

And  sighing  and  weeping,  and  praying  forgiveness  of  the 
Yirgin,  for  having  permitted  Satan  to  deceive  her  with  a  sinful 
dream — for  such  she  now  felt  convinced  it  must  have  been — 
Sister  Rose  lay  down  upon  hers. 

And  shaking  her  fist  threateningly  at  the  sour  sister,  Jacqne- 
lina  peeped  out  from  her  curtains.  The  wicked  fairy  bad  not 
half  finished  her  frolic  yet — the  best  part  of  it  was  to  come. 
She  had  to  wait  a  long  time  before  everything  was  quiet — the 
girls  would  peep  out  and  whisper  to  their  nearest  neighbors, 
who  would  reply  again.  And  Sister  Rose  sighed  and  sobbed 
softly  on  her  pillow.  And  Sister  Agnes  turned  and  tossed,  and 
grunted  and  groaned,  and  "oh!  dear  me"-ed  worse  than  before. 

The  clock  struck  twelve  before  all  was  again  in  repose.  And 
still  Jacquelina  waited  nearly  half  an  hour,  to  be  certain  that  no 
one  awoke  and  watched.  But  at  length  she  was  convinced  that 
they  were  all  asleep,  and  all  the  more  soundly  for  having  been 
once  disturbed. 

Then  the  elf  once  more  arose,  dropped  the  wrapper  and  took 
oft"  the  night-cap,  arranged  her  yellow  curls  as  before,  and  set  the 
jaunty  middy's  cap  aside  upon  them — and  coming  out  from  her 
concealment,  stepped  softly  up  to  the  left  hand  corner  bed, 
occupied  by  Sister  Agnes.  Her  bed  was  uncurtained,  like  that 
.•f  Sister  Rose  :  but  here  all  resemblance  ceased. 


APPARITION     IN     THE     DORMITORY.       239 

This  was  quite  a  different  picture.  Sister  Agnes  lay  stretched 
out  beneath  her  coverlet,  with  her  head  straight  upon  the  pillow, 
as  rigidly  as  if  she  were  an  effigy  carved  in  marble,  or  a  corpse 
laid  out  for  burial — with  both  hands  clasped  upon  her  hard 
chest,  and  grasping  the  crucifix  with  a  grim  grip,  as  if  she  had  a 
grudge  against  the  blessed  emblem,  and  meant  that  it  should  not 
escape  while  she  slept.  Her  stern  features  were  sterner  still  in 
sleep.  Her  eye-lids  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  shut  down  and 
then  screwed  down  ;  and  the  hard,  thin,  wiry,  firmly  closed  lips 
seemed  to  be  shut  up  and  locked  up  with  a  key. 

Jacquelina  looked  and  laughed  at  that  rigid  figure,  at  thai 
stern  face,  and  especially  at  that  severe,  repellant  mouth. 

"  Steel-springs,  and  rat  traps,  and  crossed-cut  saw  teeth!" she 
exclaimed.  "  I  had  as  lief  march  my  lips  up  and  kiss  the  muz- 
zle of  a  pistol  while  the  fiend  held  the  trigger !  However,  it 
would  never  do  for  the  uniform  to  show  the  white  feather,  even 
under  those  circumstances !  So  here  goes !  Verjuice,  verdigris 
and  vitriol,  though,  I  know  it's  going  to  be  dreadful !"  she  said, 
making  a  very  wry  face  as  at  the  sight  of  a  very  bitter  draught ; 
and  then  gathering  resolution  to  swallow  it,  she  suddenly 
pounced  down,  and  gave  the  stern  sleeper  a  rousing  salute ! 

"Ah-r-r-r-r-r — ah  I  Ah-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-oitch !  Ah-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r- 
oitch-aw!"  yelled  Sister  Agnes,  jumping  out  of  bed  ! 

No  hyena — no  screech-owl,  ever  screamed  forth  such  a  hor- 
rible yell  1  No  form  of  English  letters  could  give  an  idea  of 
the  harsh,  discordant  shrieks  that  seemed  to  massacre  alike  the 
air  and  the  sense  of  hearing!  Every  girl  sprang  out  of  her 
bed,  shaking  in  the  last  extremity  of  terror  at  those  awful 
shrieks.  Sister  Rose  was  among  them,  white  as  her  night-robe, 
clasping  her  hands  and  pattering  her  ave.  Jacquelina  had  run 
away  at  the  first  alarm,  and  taken  shelter  in  her  curtains. 

"  Murder!  murder!  murder!"  continued  to  shriek  Sister  Ag- 
nes, like  one  demented. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Oh  !  St.  Mary,  what  is  the  matter?" 
*ried  the  girls,  wringing  their  hands,  in  the  last  agony  of  terror. 

But  as  Sister  Agnes  only  ran  about  with  wild  eyes,  and  mouth 


240  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

agape,  giving  forth  those  ear-splitting  shrieks — they  clapped 
their  hands  to  their  bruised  and  wounded  ear-drums,  and  followed 
Jier  example,  running  about  and  screaming  with  all  their  might, 
until  soon  was  heard  the  sound  of  many  feet,  rushing  in  crowds 
along  all  the  passages  towards  the  door  of  this  dormitory.  All 
the  nuns,  all  the  teachers,  all  the  pupils,  were  roused  up  and 
pouring  thither,  while  the  alarm  bell  of  the  convent  was  ringing 
as  if  gone  mad !  The  crowd  was  at  the  door,  the  girls  ceased 
their  shrieking,  and  ran  and  unlocked  it.  And  in  pushed  the 
whole  convent,  with  the  Mother  Abbess  at  its  head.  At  her 
coming  the  whole  confusion  and  distracting  noise  abated. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  inquired  the  Abbess. 

And — "  Oh  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  Oh  !  what  on  earth  is  the 
matter  W  breathlessly  inquired  all  the  nuns,  novices  and  pupils. 

"  Silence,  Sisters  !  silence,  children  !  Leave  the  investigation 
to  me,"  commanded  the  Mother,  of  her  followers.  Then  turn- 
ing to  the  crowd  of  frightened  girls,  she  asked,  "  Has  anything 
really  happened  ?  Tell  me  the  occasion  of  this  outcry.  What 
is  it  ?" 

"  Oh  !  we  don't  know !  we  don't  know !  But  we  think  there 
is — a — man  in  the  dormitory  !" 

"A  man  in  the  room!  Holy  St.  Mary !"  exclaimed  all  the 
profoundly  shocked  nuns,  novices,  and  pupils. 

"A  man  in  the  room — impossible!"  said  the  Abbess,  while 
the  girls  crowded  around  her,  all  talking  at  once,  and  saying, 

"We  were  all  asleep,  and  Sister  Agnes  screamed  out!  It 
was  Sister  Agnes !" 

"  Silence,  young  ladies,  and  let  Sister  Agnes  come  forward 
and  speak  for  herself.  This  is  really  very  irregular !  Sister 
Agnes,  please  to  explain  the  cause  of  this  false  alarm — for  such 
1  must  believe  it,  since  it  is  absolutely  impossible  that  a  man 
spould  be  here." 

Sister  Agnes  came  forward,  turning  np  the  whites  of  her 
eves,  and  crossing  herself — and  amid  many  groans  and  sighs, 
told  the  shocking  story  of  a  handsome  young  officer,  in  uni- 
fm-m(  who  was  hidden  somewhere  in  the  room,  and  had  come  to 
her  bedside  and  kissed  her  in  her  sleep ! 


APPARITION     IN     THE     DORMITORY.        241 

Among  the  girls  who  listened  to  this  exciting  explanation, 
was  the  "  culprit  lay,"  herself,  who  stood  there  with  her  flow- 
ing night-dress  effectually  concealing  the  suit  of  uniform  worn 
beneath  it,  and  with  the  middy's  tasseied  cap  also  hidden 
under  it. 

The  Lady  Abbess  listened  to  the  story  with  a  very  grave 
face.  She  was  a  fair  and  comely  woman  of  thirty,  full  fifteen 
years  younger  than  Sister  Agnes,  notwithstanding  she  held,  as 
she  deserved  to  hold,  the  superior  rank.  She  heard  the  whole 
tale  to  its  close,  deferring  all  comment  for  the  present.  Then 
she  calmly  ordered  that  the  room  should  be  thoroughly  searched. 
And  the  girls  started  on  the  enterprise — 

'•  Away  they  ran  and  the  hunt  began, 

Each  comer  to  search,  each  uook  to  scan,  •* 

The  highest,  the  lowest,  the  murkiest  spot, 
They  searched  for  the  culprit,  and  found  him  not" 

Of  course  not !  Though  the  room  was  thoroughly  "  sifted,"  uo 
vestige  of  an  intruder  could  be  found.  They  hunted  every- 
where— they  looked  under  every  bed,  within  every  set  of  curtains, 
shook  all  the  pillows,  turned  up  all  the  mattrasses,  examined 
the  shrine  of  the  Virgin,  hunted  every  nook  and  cranny.  Some 
of  the  girls,  in  their  zeal,  turned  their  boots  upside  down  and 
unrolled  and  shook  their  stockings — but  no  hidden  enemy 
dropped  out ;  some,  in  absence  of  mind,  opened  and  whirled 
the  leaves  of  their  mass  books,  but  found  the  pictures  of  men 
only.  In  short,  so  thorough  was  the  search,  that  if  a  pin  had 
been  missing,  it  must  have  been  found  !  They  searched  every- 
where, except  (as  usual)  the  right  place,  (Jacquelina's  unsus- 
pected person,)  and  no  sign  of  the  enemy  could  be  seen.  It 
was  no  use — there  was  no  man  there  !  The  alarm  was  a  false 
one,  that  was  clear.  And  got  up  by  Sister  Agnes,  who  vowed 
and  protested  in  vain.  Nobody  believed  her.  The  girls  laughed 
at  her,  and  the  Mother  Abbess  looked  very  grave. 

"  I  am  very  much  mortified,  Sister  Agnes,"  she  said,  "to  be 
under  the  painful  necessity  of  rebuking  you  here,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  these  young  ladies,  your  youthful  charge,  whom  your 


242  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

irreproachable  conduct  should  rather  teach  to  respect  you  !  It 
is  humiliating  to  see  a  woman  of  your  grave  and  sober  years 
and  sacred  calling,  the  subject  of  such  vain  and  foolish  dreams 
and  visions,  as  must  totally  unfit  you  for  the  post  of  chief 
guardian  to  these  young  creatures.  You  will  therefore  be 
pleased  to  consider  yourself  displaced,  and  to  leave  the  dormi- 
tory this  night.  I  will  assign  yon  a  cell  before  I  sleep.  Sister 
Serena,  you  will  take  Sister  Agnes's  vacated  place." 

And  thus  having  administered  justice,  the  Lady  Abbess  mar- 
shaled her  followers,  and  withdrew  from  the  dormitory,  the 
crest-fallen  Sister  Agnes  going  after  them ;  and  Sister  Serena 
remaining  in  her  stead, 

The  young  girls,  exhausted  by  so  much  excitement,  sought 
their  pillows,  and  soon  fell  asleep.  And  Jacquelina  whispered 
iu  confidence  to  her  pillow,  "  So  much  for  ihejirst  day !" 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

DOCTOR      GRIMSHAW. 

"  There's  a  cold  bearing, 
And  grave,  severe  aspect  about  the  man, 
As  make  our  spirits  pay  him  such  respect, 
As  though  he  dwelt  'neath  age's  silvery  pent-house, 
Despite  bis  years." — Fanny  Ktmblt. 

THE  morning  came,  and  Jacquelina  was  puzzled  to  km;* 
where  to  conceal  her  contraband  uniform. 

The  moment  was  imminent.  The  girls  were  all  rising  and 
going  into  the  hall  connected  with  the  dormitory,  where,  ranged 
up  and  down  the  sides  of  the  walls,  were  rows  of  wash-stunds, 
each  numbered  with  the  number  of  the  owner. 

Jacquelina  rolled  up  the  suit  in  the  smallest  possible  com- 
pass, and  put  it  under  the  mattrass,  hoping  that  it  might  re- 


DOCTOR      GRIM  SHAW.  243 

main  hidden  until  she  could  devise  some  other  hiding  place  for 
it.  She  knew  it  would  never  do  to  put  it  in  her  trunk,  where 
it  would  be  certain  of  being  found,  when  Sister  Rose  should 
unpack  it.  So  she  was  forced  to  leave  it  for  the  present  where 
it  was,  hoping  the  best. 

And  she  went  into  the  hall,  or  bathing,  or  dressing-room, 
whichever  it  might  be  called,  and  had  a  wash-stand  pointed 
out  for  her  future  use.  Then  Sister  Rose  went  to  her  trunk 
and  gave  her  out  her  soaps,  brushes,  combs,  napkins,  etc. 

The  girls  were  not  tempted  to  linger  over  their  toilets,  for 
tlere  were  no  looking-glasses  in  the  apartment,  not  the  smallest 
apology  for  one — the  nuns  interdicted  them  as  savoring  of  the 
vanities  of  the  world. 

So  the  young  ladies  soon  completed  their  hasty  toilets,  and 
were  marched  down  into  the  chapel  for  matins.  And  when  this 
was  over  they  were  marched  in  the  same  order  to  the  refectory 
for  breakfast. 

And  all  the  while  Jacquelina's  thoughts  were  running  upon 
the  awful  suit  of  uniform,  that  dead  body  hidden  under  her 
niiittrass ! — her  emotions  being  divided  between  curiosity,  anx- 
iety, and  mirth. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  just  as  the  pupils  had  risen 
from  the  table,  and  were  marching  out  of  the  refrectory,  one  of 
the  lay-sisters  came  up  and  quietly  singling,  out  Jacquelina, 
informed  her  that  the  Mother  Superior  desired  her  presence  in 
the  dormitory. 

Jacquelina  was  one  of  those  creatures,  who,  unless  she  had 
some  great  sin  upon  her  conscience,  would  have  jested  on  the 
scaffold !  And  as  she  followed  the  lay-sister,  all  sensations  of 
anxiety  gave  way  to  the  thrilling  anticipation  of  fun  to  come  in 
the  looks  of  the  horrified  Mother  Abbess  and  her  nuns. 

But  Jacko  was  destined  to  be  a  little  disappointed. 

The  lay-sister  attended  her  to  the  door  of  the  dormitory,  and 
left  her  She  went  in.  There  was  no  one  there  but  the  Ab- 
bess and  Sister  Rose — the  uniform  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

"  Shut  the  door  and  lock  it,  Miss  L'Oiseau,"  said  the  Ab- 
bess, in  a  grave  voice. 


244  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Jacquelina  did  as  she  was  bidden,  saying  to  herself, 

"  I  wonder  if  they  are  going  to  bring  me  before  a  secret 
chapter,  and  have  me  inhumed  alive  for  my  frolic  ?"  as  sho 
approached  them,  half  laughing. 

The  Abbess  and  Rose  were  standing  near  her  bed.  There 
also  she  saw  a  packet,  neatly  done  up  and  pinned  in  a  clean 
napkin,  which  she  felt  sure  must  contain  the  uniform. 

"  Miss  L'Oiseau,"  commenced  the  elder  lady,  speaking  in  a 
grave,  sad  voice,  "  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  cause  of  the 
alarm  last  night  has  been  discovered.  For  your  own  sake,  as 
well  as  for  the  sake  of  our  convent,  and  the  young  creatures  it 
shelters,  I  thank  the  saints  that  no  one  is  in  the  secret  of  your 
fault  except  myself  and  Sister  Hose,  in  whose  discretion  I  have 
the  utmost  confidence.  But  after  this  indelicate  joke,  (to  use 
no  harsher  term,)  I  must  separate  you  from  the  young  ladies, 
who  should  have  been  your  companions.  Until  I  hear  from 
your  friends,  to  whom  I  am  about  to  write,  a  full  account  of 
this  matter,  you  will  share  my  apartment,  and  be  under  my 
personal  charge.  Sister  Rose,  conduct  Miss  L'Oiseau  thither. 

Jacquelina's  face,  for  the  very  first  time  in  her  life,  blazed 
with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  humiliation.  She  had  never 
looked  on  her  frolic  in  so  severe  a  light — she  had  never  consi- 
dered its  impropriety — indeed  she  had  never  considered  at  all — 
she  had  acted  from  impulse.  And  now  that  she  was  made  to 
feel  and  see  a  certain  indelicacy  in  her  practical  joke,  her  face 
burned  with  blushes,  and  her  girlish  shame  was  mingled  with 
indignation  against  those  who  had  made  her  feel  it.  We  know 
that  she  was  very  perverse.  Smiling  and  nodding  her  head 
at  the  dignified  Lady  Superior,  she  said  that  she  was  content — 
that  in  the  privacy  of  her  room  she  should  find  ample  time  to 
devise  some  new  entertainment  for  herself,  and  that  she  was  as 
fertile  in  resources  as  any  Jesuit  among  them  1  And  so  saying 
she  followed  Sister  Rose. 

The  abbess  wrote  that  day,  and  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two 
came  an  answer  from  Commodore  Waugh,  enclosing  a  letter 
to  his  niece.  His  letter  to  the  Abbess  explained  something 


DOCTOR      G  R  I  M  S  II  A  W .  245 

of  Jacquelina's  naturally  elfish  nature  assuring  her  that  it  was 
for  the  cure  of  this  very  fault  that  he  had  placed  her  under  the 
charge  of  the  pious  sisterhood  ;  begging  her  not  to  consider 
her  fault  too  severely — saying  that  what,  in  a  model  young  lady 
of  society,  might  be  deemed  a  shocking  impropriety,  was,  in 
his  wild  little  Jacko,  a  mere  venial  error,  entreating  her  to  ac- 
cept the  apology  and  atonement  that  he  should  command  his 
niece  to  make  ;  and  to  try  her  a  little  longer. 

The  letter  to  Jacquelina  was  quite  another  matter — it  was 
short — not  sweet,  but  crusty  and  characteristic.  I  apologise 
for  the  necessity  of  introducing  it. 

BENEDICT,  Oct.  15th,  1821. 

You  Little  Demon  ! — If  you  don't  go  down  on  your  knees 
and  beg  sister  What's-her-name's  pardon,  and  put  yourself 
right  with  Mother  Thingamy,  I'll  come  and  give  you  the  con- 
fouudedest  keel-hauling  that  ever  you  had  !  I'll  be  shot  if  I 
don't !  NICHOLAS  WAUGH. 

This  edifying  admonition  restored  Jacquelina  to  herself,  by 
putting  to  flight  all  her  new  feelings  of  maiden  propriety,  and 
bringing  back  by  association,  all  her  love  of  fun,  frolic  and 
deviltry.  Laughing  immoderately  she  seized  her  pen  and  wrote 
as  follows : 

CONVENT  OF  ST.  SERE.VA,  Oct.  Ifith,  182 — . 
Dear  Uncle  Xick  : — Haven't  the  least  intention  to  go  on  my 
knees  to  any  being  under  God — wouldn't  do  it  to  save  myself 
from  death  or  my  soul  from  purgatory  !  Haven't  the  least  idea 
either  who  you  mean  by  "  Sister  What's-her  name,"  or  "  Mother 
Thingamy" — nor  what  manner  of  punishment  "the  confound- 
edest  keel-hauling"  may  be.  But  I  know  one  thing — I'm  fuller 
of  fun  than — than  Grim'  is  of  fanaticism!  And  if  you  don't 

come  in  two  days  from  this  and  bring  me  home,  I'll • 

leave  you  to  imagine  what  I'll  do  next ! 

Your  dutiful  niece, 

JACQUELINA 
20* 


246  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

This  note  was  sealed  and  dispatched.  And  what  do  you 
think  was  the  result  of  it  ?  Why  that  in  about  another  day 
and  a  half,  Commodore  Waugh  came  in  a  state  of  mind  be 
tween  a  panic  and  a  fury,  and  took  his  exemplary  niece  home. 

The  journey  was  performed  on  the  part  of  the  Commodore 
in  unmitigated  sulkiness.  Only  once  had  he  condescended  to 
address  Jacquelina,  and  that  was  only  to  inform  her  that  he 
was  tired  of  the  responsibility  of  taking  care  of  her — that  it 
was  necessary  he  should  secure  her  from  future  harm,  and  that 
as  soon  as  they  should  arrive  at  home,  she  should  forthwith  be 
married  to  Grim' — that  is,  if  Grim'  would  have  such  an  un- 
worthy piece  of  goods  as  herself. 

"  He'd  better  not,"  laughed  Jacquelina.  "  I'd  be  the  death 
of  him  in  a  twelvemonth." 

Little  did  the  fairy  dream  she  had  uttered  a  prophecy ! 

The  Commodore  condescended  to  make  no  comment  on  her 
words,  and  the  journey  proceeded  in  silence. 

They  reached  home  at  the  close  of  the  second  day. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Mimmy  ?"  exclaimed  Jacquelina, 
throwing  herself  into  her  mother's  arms.  Didn't  I  say  I'd  be 
home  in  a  week  ? — and  here  I  am  !" 

"  Oh !  Jacquelina !  you  will  ruin  us  both  !  you  will  break  my 
heart !"  cried  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  repelling  her  caresses  and  push- 
ing her  away.  Not  that  she  was  shocked  and  angered  by  Jac- 
quelina's  frolics,  as  that  she  was  afraid,  poor  piteous  creature, 
to  show  her  child  any  affection  in  the  Commodore's  presence. 
Mary  L'Oiseau,  in  her  humble  home  at  Old  Fields,  had  pos- 
sessed some  self-respect,  if  little  self  reliance,  but  the  promising 
change  in  her  prospects  —  the  domination  of  Commodore 
Waugh,  and  the  hopes  and  fears  concerning  the  inheritance  of 
Luckeuough,  had  been  sufficient  to  disturb  the  whole  free 
action  of  her  soul,  and  make  her  the  shrinking,  cringing, 
timorous  creature  that  we  find  her  now.  She  was  afraid  to  be 
kind  to  her  daughter  lest  she  should  offend  the  Commodore. 
She  was  not  afraid,  by  submitting  to  the  Commodore,  to  ofl'end 
God.  For  much  as  she  dreaded  the  dies  irea,  yet  when,  tne 


DOCTOR      GRIMSHAW.  247 

fcir  of  God  and  the  fear  of  man  contended  in  her  bosom,  the 
nearest  dread,  the  fear  of  man — prevailed.  So  she  kept  her 
•daughter  at  a  cold  distance.  Mrs.  Waugh  only  dared  to  be 
kind  to  Jacquelina. 

The  Commodore  was  amusing  himself  by  making  his  family 
as  uncomfortable  and  anxious  as  he  possibly  could  under  the 
circumstances. 

Their  apartments  at  the  village  hotel  were  extremely  limited 
— consisting  only  of  a  small  parlor  and  two  tiny  bed-rooms, 
one  occupied  by  himself  and  Henrietta,  and  the  other  by  Mary 
L'Oiseau  and  Jacquelina — the  whole  suite,  you  perceive,  scarcely 
big  enough  for  the  Commodore  to  "blow  out"  and  storm  in. 
So  for  hours  after  breakfast  he  would  sit  in  the  big  arm  chair 
in  the  parlor,  puffing  great  volumes  of  smoke  from  his  tobacco- 
pipe,  and  filling  all  the  rooms  and  scenting  all  the  window- 
curtains,  bed-draperies  and  wearing  apparel  with  the  stifling 
vapor,  till  between  smoke  and  fear,  Mary  L'Oiseau  was  always  ill. 

Andtbad  as  that  was,  it  was  not  the  worst — that  only  in- 
flicted discomfort ;  another  practice  gave  the  greatest  uneasi- 
ness— the  Commodore  would  spend  his  afternoons  and  nights 
playing  cards  and  losing  money  in  the  bar-room. 

How  long  this  would  have  lasted,  or  how  far  it  might  have 
progressed,  it  is  impossible  to  tell ;  had  not  "  Locust  Hill,"  the 
place  of  Mr.  Hughes,  deceased,  been  advertised  for  rent.  And 
as  Luckenough  was  far  enough  from  completion,  and  as  the 
Commodore  himself  was  smothering  for  want  of  space,  he 
rented  it  at  once,  sent  to  Baltimore  for  furniture,  which  he 
said  would  do  to  help  to  refurnish  Luckenough.  As  soon  as  it 
arrived  he  went  once  more  to  housekeeping. 

"  Locust  Hill"  was  a  moderate  sized  country  house,  situated 
on  a  gentle  elevation,  just  outside  of  the  village,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  grove  of  the  trees  from  which  it  was  named. 
More  servants  were  sent  for  from  the  quarters  at  Luckenough, 
ar.d  here  the  family  found  themselves,  as  to  external  surround 
ings,  tolerably  comfortable  in  body,  if  bodily  comfort  could  co- 
exist with  such  anxiety  of  mind  as  they  'vere  called  upon  to 
endure. 


248  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

For,  oh  !  the  Commodore  continued  his  visits  to  the  village 
hotel,  where  he  would  frequently  play  until  he  lost  a  large  sum  of 
money,  and  then  he  would  come  home  in  the  most  ungovernable 
rage  with  the  whole  family — swearing  that  they  were  the  most 
extravagant  set  of  people  that  had  ever  ruined  a  man  or  brought 
themselves  to  beggary — that  he  would  not  be  trampled  on  by 
them  any  longer — that  Henrietta  should  be  cut  down  to  one 
quarter  of  her  present  outlay  for  household  provisions,  and 
that  that  little  devil  should  be  married  to  Grim',  or  should  tramp 
with  her  fool  of  a  mother  forthwith  !  And  that  was  all  poor 
Mary  got  for  her  submission.  Such  threats  regularly  sent  her 
to  bed  with  a  sick  headache.  And  he  swore  that  in  his  own 
house  he  was  "supreme  ruler,"  and  meant  that  they  should 
know  it,  too  !  And,  indeed,  with  the  sums  of  money  he  was 
losing  at  the  gaming-table,  and  the  sums  he  was  expending  in 
the  rebuilding  of  Luckenough,  Henrietta  became  so  alarmed, 
that,  with  the  piteous  ineffectual  manner  of  women  under  such 
circumstances,  she  began  first  to  economise  in  her  personal 
comforts  —  saving  pennies  while  he  was  wasting  pounds. 
Among  other  things  —  whereas  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
have  two  or  three  seamstresses  in  the  house  twice  a  year,  to 
make  up  the  clothing  for  the  plantation  negroes — now  she  and 
Mary  L'Oiseau  undertook,  with  the  help  of  the  maid  Maria, 
to  do  the  whole  work,  and  night  after  night  they  might  be  seen 
gathered  around  the  table,  sewing  diligently  by  the  light  of 
two  home-dipped  tallow  candles. 

Now  what  do  you  think  the  Commodore  actually  did  upon 
one  night?  Coming  home  from  the  village,  after  having  lost 
more  money  than  usual,  he  seized  one  of  these  candles,  and 
turned  it  down  into  its  socket,  exclaiming, 

"  I'll  be  shot  if  retrenchment  mustn't  commence  somewhere!" 

And  the  building  up  of  Luckenough !  The  architect  and 
his  subordinates  had  a  time  of  it!  For  it  was  the  first  time  that 
the  Commodore  had  ever  had  the  importance  and  excitement 
o.nd  enjoyment  of  a  builder — and  every  morning  he  rode  ovei 
to  Luckenough,  and  passed  the  forenoon  iu  "  dragooning"  the 


DOCTOR      GRIMSHAW.  24? 

contractor,  and  driving  the  workmen,  making  them  pull  down 
this,  and  alter  that,  and  put  up  the  other,  in  open  defiance  of 
all  rules  of  building,  until  the  men  were  nearly  driven  to  their 
wits'  ends,  and  the  time  and  cost  of  completing  the  house  was 
extended  indefinitely. 

Indeed  all — family,  dependants,  and  hired  assistants,  were 
so  thoroughly  worn  out  with  the  Commodore,  that  his  best 
friends  in  their  hearts  prayed  for  the  coming  of  the  fogs  and 
rains  of  November,  that  should  literally  "  lay  him  up  by  the 
legs"  in  his  own  room,  and  confine  his  domination  within 
limited  bounds. 

At  last,  towards  the  latter  end  of  November,  their  prayers 
seemed  answered,  and  the  Commodore,  swathed  in  flannels,  and 
wrapped  in  blankets,  reclined  in  his  great  easy-chair,  with  his 
leg  laid  out  upon  pillows  on  another. 

And  from  the  neighborhood  of  this  chair,  Heni'ietta  sedu- 
lously kept  everything  that  could  be  used  as  a  missile,  even  his 
crutch.  His  meals  used  to  be  served  on  a  little  stand  beside 
his  chair — but  one  day  he  threw  a  fork  at  poor  Maria,  wound- 
ing her  face,  and  narrowly  missing  destroying  her  eye.  And 
after  that,  Henrietta  cut  his  victuals  up  into  small  mouthfuls, 
and  sent  him  up  a  teaspoon  to  eat  with. 

You  may  imagine  the  furious  storm  that  arose  then,  and 
how  the  Commodore  hurled  plate,  bowl  and  pitcher  all  through 
the  window-glass  into  the  yard. 

But  Henrietta  told  him  it  was  of  no  use,  that  though  every 
member  of  the  family,  from  herself  down  to  the  least  servant, 
should  serve  him  faithfully,  yet  she  could  not  have  people, 
especially  poor,  helpless  maid-servants,  killed,  crippled,  or 
blinded  in  her  house;  that  she  should  certainly  send  him  no 
more  knives  and  forks,  and  if  he  threw  another  china  plate 
through  the  window  sash,  she  should  send  him  up  his  food  on  a 
large  ?abbage  leaf,  and  his  drink  in  a  gourd.  If  he  would  act 
like  a  madman  he  must  be  treated  as  such — people  were 
not  to  be  exposed  to  wanton  injury,  nor  property  to  wanton 
destruction. 


250  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

A  notable  blessing  was  the  result,  for  the  Commodore  severe 
a  furious  oath,  by  all  the  demons,  that  not  one  of  the  family 
should  enter  his  room  again  during  his  illness,  that  he  would 
be  nursed  only  by  Grim',  and  waited  on  only  by  Festua 
("Stupe"). 

This  new  law  was  immediately  executed.  Grim'  was  sum- 
moned and  installed  as  nurse,  and  Festns  brought  from  Luck- 
euough  and  established  as  waiter,  to  the  inexpressible  relief  of 
the  sorely  fatigued  and  harassed  family. 

And  all  went  on  smoothly  enough  for  a  while,  until  one  day, 
when  Grim'  was  dressing  the  swollen  limb,  Festus,  with  a  basin 
of  hot  water,  approached  trembling,  as  he  always  did  when  he 
drew  near  his  dangerous  and  uncertain  master. 

"  Drop  that  basin  on  my  leg,  you  little  rascal,  you!"  vocife- 
rated the  Commodore,  seeing  how  shakingly  he  held  it. 

When  forthwith  Festus,  the  literal  interpretist,  dropped  the 
basin  upon  the  leg,  as  he  was  bid. 

A  horrible  yell  burst  from  the  Commodore,  who,  with  one 
galvanic  bound,  overset  Grim',  and  seized  Festus  by  the  ears, 
and  dragging  him  up  within  the  bear  hug  of  one  arm,  pum- 
meled  him  with  the  other  until  the  boy  was  black  and  blue, 
and  the  Commodore  himself  exhausted. 

This  brought  on  a  severe  crisis  of  his  disease.  He  had  to 
be  put  to  bed,  the  doctor  had  to  be  summoned,  and  a  long  and 
serious  fit  of  illness  ensued.  Mrs.  Waugh,  of  course,  was  im- 
mediately reinstated. 

Dr.  Grimshaw,  at  the  Commodore's  invitation,  became  au 
inmate  of  the  house,  which  was  so  convenient  to  the  village 
where  his  daily  duties  called  him. 

Whenever  the  Commodore  was  sufficiently  free  fcbm  pain 
and  fever,  Mrs.  Waugh  and  Mary  L'Oiseau  were  sent  from  the 
room,  and  Grim'  was  summoned.  And  long  consultations 
were  held  by  the  two  conspirators  in  the  sick  room. 

The  result  was,  that  Dr.  Grimshaw  became  the  daily  perse- 
cutor of  Jacqueliua. 

But  the  beautiful  elf  mocked  and  derided  him !  turned  him 
into  all  sorts  of  ridicule  !  laughed  him  to  scorn  ! 


I>  0  C  T  0  R      G  KIM  SHAW.  251 

And  the  more  she  charmed  and  fascinated  him  by  her  laugh- 
ter und  her  sparkling  wit — leveled  at  himself  though  it  was — 
the  more  impassioned  he  became;  declaring  that  her  girlish 
ficoni  was  but  the  effervescing  bead  upon  the  champagne — 
showing  the  excellency  of  the  wine. 

And  the  more  earnest  he  became,  the  more  unmercifully  she 
jibed  and  jeered  at  him — the  more  immoderately  she  laughed. 

Until  one  day  when,  as  he  vowed  in  his  singularly  sweet 
tones  that  he  loved  her  to  distraction,  she  ordered  him  to  go 
down  on  both  his  knees  and  tell  her  so;  and  then,  and  not  till 
then,  she  would  give  him  an  answer;  for  how  dared  he  make  a 
declaration  of  love  to  her  from  any  other  position  ?  And  when 
the  lost,  infatuated  man  actually  obeyed  her  laughing  behest, 
and  dropped  upon  his  knees  at  her  feet,  she  fell  back  in  her 
chair,  and  laughed  herself  nearly  into  convulsions.  The  Pro- 
fessor began  to  feel  humilitated  and  indignant,  and  ouce  or 
twice  made  a  start  to  rise ;  but,  between  her  peals  of  laaghter, 
Jacquelina  raised  her  finger  and  told  him  no  1  that  he  was  to 
stay  there,  and  wait  for  her  answer.  And  there  she  kept  him 
until  she  became  tired  of  the^fun  ;  then,  recovering  from  the 
jast  paroxysm  of  her  laughter,  she  said, 

"  Doctor  Grimshaw,  not  to  keep  you  in  suspense,  I  never 
intend  to  be  married  at  all !  I  scorn  the  idea  I  And,  least  of 
all  men,  would  I  have  you!  for,  dearest  Ghoul,  not  to  flatter 
you,  I  had  as  lief  wed  Old  Time,  with  his  scythe,  or  Death, 
with  his  skull  and  cross-bones, !" 

His  teeth  closed  with  a  snap — he  started  up  with  a  spring, 
and  darting  upon  her  a  look  of  mingled  longing  and  hatred, 
he  hissed, 

"  Very  well !  we  shall  see  that !" 

"  Why,  what  does  the  Fright  mean  ?"  said  Jacquelina,  arch- 
ing ,her  eyebrows  and  pursing  her  lips;  "  are  threats  and  ill- 
tempe"r  the  way  to  win  a  lady's  love  ?" 

But  Grim'  had  gone — gone  to  answer  a  summons  from  the 
Commodore,  sent  an  hour  before. 

Now,  Doctor  Grimshaw  was  no  fright,  though  by  no  means 
go  handsome  as  the  partial  eyes  of  the  Commodore  found  him. 


252  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

His  appearance  was  singular  and  somewhat  repellant.  He 
was  extremely  tall  and  thin,  with  rounded,  stooping  shoulders, 
like  those  of  the  Commodore  himself.  He  chose  always  to  be 
clothed  in  a  tight  suit  of  solemn  black — a  style  of  dress  that 
was  characteristic  of  the  man,  and  which  exaggerated  the  tall, 
thin,  spectra!  look  of  his  6gure,  and  the  pale,  livid  hue  of  his 
complexion.  He  had  black  hair  and  eyes,  and  eyebrows  that 
nearly  met  at  the  narrow,  sunken  root  of  his  long  nose;  his 
cheeks  were  hollow,  and  his  chin  projecting,  and  his  teeth  had 
a  habit  of  catching  with  a  snap,  when  anything  suddenly 
enraged  him. 

One  looked  at  him  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  fear,  dislike,  and 
pity — as  if  he  were  very  little  more  responsible  for  the  evil  and 
danger  that  might  be  in  him,  than  the  serpent  is  for  its  fangs 
and  venom  ;  as  if  his  faults  were  those  of  original  sin  and 
hereditary  growth,  rather  than  of  his  own  willful  importation 
and  cultivation. 

Ignatius  Loyola  Grimshaw  was  a  foreigner  by  birth  ;  he  had 
come  over  with  the  Commodore  when  the  latter  returned  to  his 
native  country,  and  the  influence  of  the  old  man  had  obtained 
him  his  present  position  and  standing  in  the  county. 

Some  surprise  was  expressed,  and  some  conjectures  made, 
concerning  the  unusual  interest  and  great  affection  the  rugged 
old  soldier  bore  to  his  protege ;  but,  as  time  passed,  and  the 
walk  of  Doctor  Grimshaw  was  exemplary  to  a  degree,  these 
suspicions  and  conjectures  gradually  died  out,  and  the  partiality 
of  the  old  man  for  the  young  one  was  set  down  as  one  of  his 
unaccountable  whims.  And  so  Doctor  Grimshaw  grew  in  favor 
with  man,  if  not  with  Him  who  seeth  not  as  man  seeth. 

Such  was  the  pet  of  Commodore  Waugh  and  the  lover  of 
Jacquelina — such  the  man  whose  love  she  made  the  object  of 
Ler  merry  scorn. 

Poor  Sans  Souci!  her  laughing  days  were  almost  over! 
The  Commodore,  like  the  frozen  adder  of  the  fable,  was  "coin- 
ing round"  again,  under  the  tender  care  of  Henrietta  and  Mary 
L'Oiseau,  and  was  preparing  to  sting  at  least  one  of  the  hands 
that  had  nursed  him  back  to  life,  namely,  "poor,  misfortmt 


DOCTOR      GRIMSHAW.  253 

Miss  Mary,"  as  Jenny  called  her — Jenny,  who  now  freely  de- 
clared that  she  was  very  sorry  she  had  ever  "  'vised  her  to  go 
to  Old  Nick."  The  Commodore  swore  that  he  knew  how  "to 
make  Jacqueline  knuckle  under,"  and  that  he  meant  to  do  it,  just 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  use  his  limbs. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  December.  The  snow  was  on  the 
ground,  and  the  weather  was  bitterly  cold.  One  morning:, 
during  a  snow-storm  that  kept  all  the  family  and  all  the  female 
servants  confined  within  doors,  the  Commodore  seized  the  oc- 
casion to  send  for  Jacquelina  to  his  room. 

•She  came  in  laughing  at  some  merry  jest  that  she  had  left 
behind. 

But  the  Commodore  sternly  motioned  her  to  a  seat,  which 
she  took,  and  fearlessly  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

He  told  her  roundly  that  he  had  come  to  the  fixed  and  un- 
alterable determination  to  have  her  married  to  Grimshaw,  at 
Christmas — and  that  she  might  go  and  prepare  herself  for  an 
honor  that  he  considered  far  above  her  merits. 

"  So  much  above  my  merits,"  said  the  elf,  nodding  her  saucy 
head  at  him,  "that  I  haven't  the  least  idea  of  accepting  it." 

"  And  by  all  the  fiends  in  flames!  Miss,  you  SHALL  accept  it! 
I'll  be  shot  to  death  if  I'll  be  fooled  by  you,  or  trampled  on  by 
your  mother  any  longer?" 

"Trampled  on  by  my  mother!  Holy  saints!"  laughed 
Jacquelina,  "  the  idea  of  my  poor,  timorous  Mimmy  trampling 
on  anybody,  much  less  you!" 

"  You  laugh,  you  limb  you !  I'll  make  you  laugh  on  the 
wrong  side  of  your  mouth  before  I've  done  with  you !" 

"Which  is  the  wrong  side,  uncle?" 

"  Silence,  Minx,  before  I  box  your  ears !" 

"  I  vow,  if  you  were  to  do  that,  uncle,  I'd  seize  your  sick  leg 
and  give  it  such  a  loving  squeeze,  as  would  put  you  to  bed  for 
another  month !" 

"  I   believe  you  would,  you  little  incarnate  demon !     But 
listen  here !     I  do  not  mean  to  be  foiled  this  time !     For,  by 
all  the  saints  in  heaven,  and  all  the  fiends  in — " 
16 


254  1HE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  H-sh-sh-sh  1  you  mustn't  speak  of  your  future  home  to  ear* 
polite!" 

"I  wont  be  balked,  you  little  vixen  you.  I'll  finish  what  I 
•was  a-going  to  say — that  is,  that  by  Satan  you  shall  be  married 
to  Grim',  at  the  coming  Christmas  !" 

"It  would  certainly  be  only  by  that  agency,  if  I  were — for 
surely  no  such  marriage  as  that  could  be  made  in  heaven.  Look 
you  here,  uncle,"  she  said,  half  laughing,  though  wholly  in 
earnest;  "I  would  not  marry  Doctor  Grimshaw  for  Luck- 
enough,  and  all  that  it  will  contain — no,  not  to  save  his  life, 
nor  my  own,  nor  yours,  uncle !  I  would  sooner  see  Luck- 
enough  burned  again  to  the  ground,  and  the  soil  ploughed  up 
and  sown  with  salt,  to  make  it  a  sterile  desert  forever.  I  would 
sooner  see  Doctor  Grimshaw  hung,  and  you  in  your  grave,  and 
myself  in  my  coffin — than  doomed  to  the  living  tomb  of  a  mar- 
riage with  Doctor  Grimshaw!" 

"  Then,  by  heaven!  I'll  turn  you  out  of  doors." 

"No  you  wont,  by  '  heaven,'  uncle.  You  will  do  it  by  the 
other  agency  you  mentioned!"  laughed  Jacquelina. 

"  I'll  give  you  until  Christmas,  to  come  to  your  senses — but 
if  upon  Christmas  eve  you  are  not  prepared  to  marry  Doctor 
Grimshaw,  I'll  thrust  you  into  the  street  to  starve !" 

"  You  can  do  that !  but,  praise  be  to  the  Lord  !  you  can't 
make  me  marry  Doctor  Grimshaw !  So  you  do  as  you  please, 
uncle  1  and  do  it  as  soon  as  you  please !  I  would  rather  beg 
my  bread,  free  and  merry,  than  be  the  wife  of  that  man  !  No 
earthly  power  can  or  shall  compel  me  to  marry  Doctor  Grim- 
shaw! Fiddle-de-dee!  The  very  idea  of  such  a  thing!"  she 
exclaimed,  leaving  her  earnestness,  and  by  a  sudden  transition, 
breaking  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

In  a  rage,  her  uncle  drove  her  from  the  room,  and  she  ran 
off  to  finish  her  fit  of  laughing  in  her  own  apartment. 

Poor  Sans  Souci !  poor  Lapwing!  how  little  she  really  fcnev 
of  those  "earthly  powers,"  she  so  fearlessly  defied. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CLIPPING       A       BIRD'S       W  I  N  6  g. 

"And  the  maiden's  face  stopped  its  play, 
As  if  her  first  hair  had  grown  gray — 
For  such  things  must  begin  some  dayl 
In  a  day  or  two  she  was  well  again. 
As  who  should  say—'  You  labor  in  rain  I 
This  is  all  a  jest  against  God,  who  meant 
I  should  ever  be,  as  I  am,  content 
And  glad  in  his  sight-,  therefore  glad  I  will  be.' 
So  smiling  as  at  first  went  she." — Browning. 

IT  is  written,  "Thou  shalt  not  seethe  the  kid  in  its  mother's 
milk."  Yet  Commodore  Waugh  did  not  hesitate  to  do  this 
thing. 

The  only  way  by  which  he  could  control  Jacqnelina,  was 
through  her  affection  for  her  mother — for  filial  love  was  now 
the  sole  human  and  vulnerable  part  of  the  fairy's  nature,  and 
he  did  not  shrink  from  attacking  that  point. 

Jacqueliua  had  continued  to  laugh  at  bis  threats,  and  to  defy 
his  fury.  And  he  felt  at  last  that  she  would,  in  her  own  per- 
son, brave  any  fate,  rather  than  have  an  unwelcome  marriage 
forced  upon  her.  But  her  mother!  he  meant  to  make  her 
tremble  for  the  fate  of  her  mother! 

For  a  year  past,  that  poor  woman's  health,  unnoticed  by  all, 
except  good  Henrietta,  had  been  sinking.  A  close  room,  an 
infected  atmosphere,  a  storm  raised  by  the  Commodore,  a 
change  in  the  weather,  a  little  indiscretion  in  diet,  anything  of  the 
kind  was  enough  to  make  her  ill  for  a  day  or  a  week,  as  it  hap- 
pened. There  was  also  the  little  hacking  cough,  and  the  after- 
noon flush  in  the  cheeks,  and  light  in  the  eyes,  and  elevation  of 
the  animal  spirits,  that  could  scarcely  as  yet  be  recognized  as 
hectic  fever.  Jacquelina  was  too  young  and  inexperienced, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  family  too  careless  to  notice  the  insidious 
approach  of  death — all,  except  Henrietta,  who  watched  the 

(255) 


256  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

victim  with  anxiety,  frequently  warning  her  in  something  like 
this  manner,  "  Mary,  you  must  attend  to  that  cough,"  or, 
"Mary,  child,  don't  sit  in  that  draught  of  cold  air,"  or,  "It  is 
time  you  had  on  your  flannel,  Mary." 

This  watchfulness  and  these  admonitions  had  increased  so 
much  of  late,  that  they  had  attracted  Jacquelina's  attention, 
and  directed  it  to  her  mother — and  the  young  girl  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  she  was  very  thin,  and  that  her  voice  was 
weak,  and  her  footsteps  faint  and  slow — yet  every  day,  after 
dinner,  when  the  invalid  had  such  a  fine  color,  and  such  a  flow 
of  spirits,  Jacquelina  was  reassured.  One  day,  however,  when 
Mrs.  Waugh  had  been  more  than  usually  anxious  in  her 
thoughtfulness  for  the  poor  little  woman,  Jacquelina  followed 
her  aunt  to  her  room,  and  asked,  gravely, 

"  Aunty  !  is  there  anything  the  matter  with  my  Mimmy  ?" 

The  tears  swam  in  Henrietta's  eyes  as  she  looked  at  the  girl. 

"  Your  mother  has  not  been  well  for  a  long  time,  my  dear. 
She  is  neither  well  nor  happy — therefore  you  must  be  very 
attentive  to  her,  Lapwing,  and  very  careful  not  to  wound  or 
disturb  her  iu  any  way  by  your  frolics,  or  you  may  some  day 
greatly  repent  it." 

"  Aunty  !  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  Mimmy  is  seriously  ill  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  she  is  seriously  out  of  health  1  but  we  can 
do  much  to  help  her — especially  you  can,  Lapwing.  You  are 
her  only  child,  and  her  greatest  comfort,  and  you  must  do  all 
that  you  can  to  serve  her." 

"I  am  sure  I  will,  aunty!  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I 
would  not  do  for  my  Mimmy!  But  you  don't,  you  don't  think 
there  is  any  danger,  do  you  ?"  she  asked,  as  her  eyes  overflowed 
with  tears. 

"  Oh,  no,  my  dear !  No  immediate  danger.  We  must  be 
very  careful  of  her — that  is  all!" 

But  the  young  girl  was  not  satisfied — a  weight  had  fallen 
upon  her  heart — she  had  learned  to  ponder,  to  watch,  to  hope, 
and  to  fear,  for  one  she  loved  "  whom  death  might  touch." 

From  that  day  forth,  she  watched  her  mother's  changing  face 


CLIPPING    A     BIRD'S     WINGS.          257 

with  tenderness  and  anxiety,  waiting  on  her,  anticipating  her 
wishes,  saving  her  steps  and  labor,  shielding  her  from  harm, 
and  from  her  uncle's  frequent  harshness,  in  a  way  that  no  one 
would  have  believed  of  the  elf. 

In  the  night  she  often  left  her  bed  to  creep  on  tiptoe  to  her 
mother's  room,  to  ascertain  if  she  slept  soundly,  and  often  find- 
ing her  awake  and  feverish,  she  would  slip  down  stairs,  and  go 
to  the  distant  spring  to  get  a  pitcher  of  fresh  water  to  lave  her 
burning  head,  and  slake  her  burning  thirst.  These  night  fe- 
vers would  go  off  towards  morning  in  a  profuse  perspiration, 
and  Mary  L'Oiseau  would  rise,  though  weak,  and  go  about  the 
house  as  usual. 

But  the  clouds  were  fast  gathering  over  poor  Sans  Souci's 
heavens. 

The  Commodore  had  quite  recovered  for  the  time  being,  and 
he  began  to  urge  the  marriage  of  his  niece  with  his  favorite. 
Doctor  Grimshaw's  importunities  were  also  becoming  very  tire- 
Bome.  They  were  no  longer  a  jest.  She  could  no  longer 
divert  herself  with  them.  She  felt  them  as  a  real  persecution, 
and  expressed  herself  accordingly.  To  Grim'  she  said, 

"  Once  I  used  to  laugh  at  you.  But  now  I  do  hate  you  more 
than  anything  in  the  universe  I  And  I  wish — I  do  wish  that 
you  were  in  Heaven !  for  I  do  detest  the  very  sight  of  you — 
there!" 

And  to  the  Commodore's  furious  threats  she  would  answer, 

"  Uncle,  the  time  has  passed  by  centuries  ago  for  forcing 
girls  into  wedlock,  thanks  be  to  Christianity  and  civilization 
You  can't  force  me  to  have  Grim',  and  you  had  as  well  give  up 
the  wicked  purpose,"  or  words  to  that  effect. 

One  day  when  she  had  said  something  of  the  sort,  the  Com 
modore  answered  cruelly, 

"Very  well,  Miss!  /force  no  one,  please  to  understand  I 
But  I  afford  my  protection  and  support  only  upon  certain  (  >r~ 
ditions,  and  withdraw  them  when  those  conditions  are  not  nil- 
filled  !  Neither  you  nor  your  mother  had  any  legal  claim  upon 
me.  /  was  not  in  any  way  bound  to  feed  and  clothe  and  house 
2J* 


258  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

you  for  so  many  years.  I  did  it  with  the  tacit  understanding 
that  you  were  to  marry  to  please  me,  and  all  your  life  you  have 
understood,  as  well  as  any  of  us,  that  you  were  to  wed  Doctor 
Grimshaw. " 

"  If  such  an  understanding  existed,  it  was  without  my  con- 
sent, and  was  originated  in  my  infancy,  and  I  do  not  feel  and  I 
will  not  be  in  the  least  degree  bound  by  it !  For  the  expense 
of  ray  support  and  education,  uncle !  I  am  truly  sorry  that  you 
risked  it  upon  the  hazardous  chance  of  my  liking  or  disliking 
the  man  of  your  choice  !  But  as  I  had  no  hand  in  your  ven- 
ture, I  do  not  feel  the  least  responsible  for  your  losses.  Yours 
is  the  fate  of  a  gambler  in  human  hearts  who  has  staked  and 
lost — that  is  the  worst!" 

"And  by  all  the  fiends  in  fire,  Minion !  you  shall  find  that  it 
is  not  the  worst.  /  know  how  to  make  you  knuckle  under,  and  I 
shall  do  it!"  exclaimed  the  Commodore  in  a  rage,  as  he  rose 
up  aud  strode  off  towards  the  room  occupied  by  Mary  L'Oiseau. 
Without  the  ceremony  of  knocking,  he  burst  the  door  open 
with  one  blow  of  his  foot,  and  entered  where  the  poor,  feverish, 
frightened  creature  was  lying  down  to  take  a  nap.  Throwing 
himself  into  a  chair  by  her  bedside,  he  commenced  a  furious 
attack  upon  the  trembling  invalid.  He  recounted,  with  much 
exaggeration,  the  scene  that  had  just  transpired  between  him- 
self and  Jacquelina — repeated  with  additions  her  undutiful 
words,  bitterly  reproached  Mary  for  encouraging  and  fostering 
that  rebellious  and  refractory  temper  in  her  daughter,  warned 
her  to  bring  the  headstrong  girl  to  a  sense  of  her  position  and 
duty,  or  to  prepare  to  leave  his  roof;  for  he  swore  he  "wouldn't 
be  hectored  over  aud  trodden  upon  by  her  nor  her  daughter 
any  longer  1"  And  so  having  overwhelmed  the  timid,  nervous 
A'oman  with  undeserved  reproaches  and  threats,  he  arose  and 
left  the  room. 

And  can  any  one  be  surprised  that  her  illness  was  increased, 
nnc  her  fever  arose,  and  her  senses  wandered  all  night  ?  When 
her  mothei  was  ill,  Jacquelina  could  not  sleep.  Now  she  sat 
by  her  bedside  sponging  her  hot  hands,  and  keeping  ice  to  her 


CLIPPING    A    BIRD'S    WINGS.         259 

bead,  and  giving  drink  to  slake  her  burning  thirst,  and  listen- 
ing,  alas !  to  her  sad  and  rambling  talk  about  their  being  turned 
adrift  in  the  world  to  starve  to  death,  or  to  perish  in  the  snow  I 
•—calling  on  her  daughter  to  save  them  both  by  yielding  to  her 
uncle's  will !  And  Jacqnelina  heard  and  understood,  and  wept 
und  sighed — a  new  experience  to  the  poor  girl,  who  was 

"  Not  used  to  tears  at  night 
Instead  of  slumber !" 

All  through  the  night  she  nursed  her  with  unremitting  care. 
And  in  the  morning,  when  the  fever  waned,  and  the  patient  was 
wakeful,  though  exhausted,  she  left  her  only  to  bring  the  re- 
freshing cup  of  tea  and  plate  of  toast,  prepared  by  her  own 
hands. 

But  when  she  brought  it  to  the  bedside,  the  pale  invalid 
waved  it  away.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  not  eat.  Fear  had 
clutched  her  heart,  and  would  not  relax  its  hold. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Jacquelina,"  she  said. 

"  Eat  and  drink  first,  Mimmy,  and  then  you  and  I  will  have 
such  another  good  talk!"  said  Jacquelina,  coaxingly. 

"  I  can't  I  Oh !  I  can't  swallow  a  mouthful,  I  am  choking 
now  1" 

"  Oh  !  that  is  nothing  but  the  hysterics,  Mimmy !  '  high- 
strikes,'  as  Jenny  calls  them  !  I  feel  like  I  should  have  them 
myself  sometimes  !  Come  !  cheer  up,  Mimmy  !  Your  fever  is 
off,  and  your  head  is  cool !  Come,  take  this  consoling  cup  of 
tea  and  bit  of  toast,  and  you  will  feel  so  much  stronger  and 
cheerfuler." 

"  Tea !  Oh  1  everything  I  eat  and  drink  in  this  unhappy 
bouse  is  bitter — the  bitter  cup  and  bitter  bread  of  dcpendance  !" 

"  Put  more  sugar  into  it  then,  Mimmy,  and  sweeten  it ! 
Come  !  Things  are  not  yet  desperate !  Cheer  up !" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  love  ?  Have  you  consented  to  be 
married  to  Professor  Grimshaw  !" 

"No!  St.  Mary!  Heaven  forbid!"  exclaimed  Jacquelina, 
shuddering  for  the  first  time. 

"  Now,  why  '  Heaven  forbid  ?'    Oh  !  my  child,  why  are  yon  so 


260  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

perverse  ?  Why  wont  you  take  him,  since  your  uncle  has  set 
his  heart  upon  the  match  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother  ?» 

"  I  know  you  are  very  young  to  be  married — too  young  !  far 
too  young !  Only  sixteen,  gracious  heaven  I  But  then  you 
know  we  have  no  alternative  but  that,  or  starvation ;  and  it  is 
not  as  if  you  were  to  be  married  to  a  youth  of  your  own  age — 
this  gentleman  is  of  grave  years  and  character,  which  makes  a 
great  difference." 

"I  should  think  it  did." 

"  What  makes  you  shiver  and  shake  so,  my  dear  ?  Are  you 
cold,  or  nervous  ?  Poor  child,  you  got  no  sleep  last  night. 
Do  you  drink  that  cup  of  tea,  my  dear.  You  need  it  more 
than  I  do.". 

"No,  no." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  my  fairy  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  don't  take  sides  against  me !  don't  I 
or  you  will  drive  me  to  my  ruin.  Who  will  take  a  child's  part, 
if  her  mother  don't.  I  love  you  best  of  all  the  world,  mother. 
Do  not  take  sides  against  me  !  take  my  part !  help  me  to  bo 
true  !  to  be  true." 

"True  to  whom,  Jacquelina  ?    What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  True  to  this  heart — to  this  heart,  mother !  to  all  that  ia 
honest  and  good  in  my  nature." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  at  all." 

"  Oh,  mother,  the  thought  of  marrying  anybody  is  unwelcome 
to  me,  now ;  and  the  idea  of  being  married  to  Grim'  is  abhor- 
rent ;  is  like  that  of  being  sold  to  a  master  that  I  hate,  or  sent 
to  prison  for  life ;  it  is  full  of  terror  and  despair.  Oh  !  oh  ! — " 

"  Don't  talk  so  wildly,  Jacquelina;  you  make  me  ill." 

"  Do  I,  Mimmy  ?  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  worry  you.  Bear 
up,  Mimmy;  do  try  to  bear  up;  don't  fear;  suppose  he  dofs 
turn  me  out.  I  am  but  a  little  girl,  and  food  and  clothing  are 
cheap  enough  in  the  country,  and  any  of  our  neighbors  will  take 
me  in  just  for  the  fun  I'll  make  them.  La !  yes,  that  they  will, 
just  as  gladly  as  they  will  let  in  the  sunshine." 


CLIPPING     A      BIRD'S      WINGS.  261 

"  Ob,  child,  how  little  you  know  of  the  world.  Yes,  for  a 
day  or  two,  or  a  week  or  two,  scarcely  longer.  And  even  if 
you  could  find  a  home,  who  would  give  shelter  to  your  poor, 
sick  mother,  for  the  rest  of  her  life  ?" 

"  Mother  !  uncle  would  never  deny  you  shelter  upon  my 
account,"  exclaimed  Jacquelina,  growing  very  pale. 

"Indeed  he  will,  my  child;  he  has;  he  came  in  here  last 
night,  and  warned  me  to  pack  up  and  leave  the  house." 

"  He  will  not  dare — even  he,  so  to  outrage  humanity  and 
public  opinion,  and  everything  he  ought  to  respect." 

"  My  child,  he  will.  He  has  so  set  his  heart  upon  making 
Nace  Grirashaw  his  successor  at  Luckenough,  that  if  you 
disappoint  him  in  this  darling  purpose,  there  will  be  no  limit  to 
his  rage  and  his  revenge.  And  he  will  not  only  send  us  from 
his  roof,  but  he  will  seek  to  justify  himself  and  further  ruin  us 
by  blackening  our  names.  Your  wildness  and  eccentricity  will 
be  turned  against  us,  and  so  distorted  and  misrepresented  as  to 
ruin  us  forever." 

"Mother  !  mother !  he  is  not  so  wicked  as  that." 

"  He  is  furious  in  his  temper,  and  violent  in  his  impulses — he 
will  do  all  that  under  the  influence  of  disappointmen-t  and  pas- 
sion, however  he  may  afterwards  repent  his  injustice.  You 
must  not  disappoint  him,  Jacquelina." 

"  /  disappoint  him  ?  Why,  Miramy,  Luckenough  does  not 
belong  to  me.  And  if  he  wants  Grim'  to  be  his  successor,  «•////, 
as  I  have  heard  aunty  ask  him,  does  he  not  make  him  his  heir?" 

"  There  are  reasons,  I  suspect,  my  dear,  why  he  cannot  do  so. 
I  think  he  holds  the  property  by  such  a  tenure,  that  he  cannot 
alienate  it  from  the  family.  And  the  only  manner  in  which  he 
can  bestow  it  upon  Doctor  Grimshaw,  will  be  through  his  wife, 
if  the  doctor  should  marry  some  relative." 

"  That  is  it,  hey  ?  Well !  I  will  not  be  made  a  sumpter- 
mule  to  carry  this  rich  gift  over  to  Doctor  Grimshaw — even  if 
there  is  no  other  way  of  conveyance.  Mother !  what  is  the 
reason  the  Professor  is  such  a  favorite  with  uncle  ?" 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  know,  but  I  have  often  had  my  sus- 
picions." 


2fi2  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

4  Of  what,  Mimmy?" 

"  Of  a  very  near,  though  unacknowledged  relationship  ;  don't 
question  me  any  farther  upon  that  particular  point,  my  dea^ 
for  I  really  know  nothing  whatever  about  it.  Oh,  dear."  And 
the  invalid  groaned  and  turned  over. 

l:  Mother,  you  are  very  weak  ;  mother,  please  to  take  some 
tea ;  let  me  go  get  you  some  hot." 

"  Tell  me,  Jacquelina;  will  you  do  as  the  old  man  wishes  you?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  after  you  take  some  refreshments,"  said 
Jacquelina. 

"  Well  !  go  bring  me  some." 

The  girl  went  and  brought  more  hot  tea  and  toast,  and  waited 
until  her  mother  had  drank  the  former,  and  partaken  of  a  morsel 
of  the  latter.  When,  in  answer  to  the  eager,  inquiring  look, 
she  said : 

"  Mother !  if  I  alone  were  concerned,  I  would  leave  this 
house  this  moment,  though  I  should  never  have  another  roof 
over  my  head.  But  for  your  sake,  mother,  I  will  still  fight  the 
battle.  I  will  try  to  turn  uncle  from  his  purpose.  I  will  try 
to  awaken  Grim's  generosity,  if  he  has  any,  and  get  him  to 
withdraw  his  suit.  I  will  get  aunty  to  use  her  influence  with 
both  of  them,  and  see  what  can  be  done.  But  as  for  marrying 
Dr.  Grimshaw,  mother — I  know  what  I  am  saying — I  would 
rather  die!" 

"  And  see  me  die,  my  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother !  it  will  not  be  so  bad  as  that." 

"  Jacquelina,  it  will.  Do  you  know  what  is  the  meaning  of 
these  afternoon  fevers  and  night  sweats,  and  this  cough  ?" 

"  I  know  it  means  that  you  are  very  much  out  of  health, 
Mimmy,  but  I  hope  you  will  be  well  in  the  spring." 

"  Jacquelina,  it  means  death." 

"  Oh,  no  !  No,  no !  No,  no !  Not  so  !  There's  Miss 
Nancy  Skamp  has  had  a  cough  every  winter  ever  since  I  knew 
her,  and  she  is  not  dead  nor  likely  to  die,  and  you  will  be  well 
in  the  spring,"  said  the  girl,  changing  color  and  faltering  in 
fcpite  of  herself. 


CLIPPING    A    BIRD'S    WINGS.         263 

"  I  shall  never  see  another  spring,  my  child — " 

"  Oh,  mother  !  don't !  don't  say  so.     You — " 

"Hear  me  out,  my  dear;  I  shall  never  live  to  see  another 
spring,  unless  I  can  have  a  quiet  life,  with  peace  of  mind. 
These  symptoms,  my  child,  mean  death,  sooner  or  later.  My 
life  may  be  protracted  for  many  years,  if  I  can  live  in  peace  and 
comfort;  but  if  I  must  suffer  privation,  want,  and  anxiety,  I 
Cannot  survive  many  months,  Jacquelina." 

The  poor  girl  was  deadly  pale  ;  she  started  up  and  walked 
the  floor  in  a  distracted  manner,  crying, 

"What  shall  I  do  !     Oh  !  what  shall  I  do  !" 

"  It  is  very  plain  what  you  shall  do,  my  child.  You  must 
marry  Dr.  Grimshaw.  Come,  my  dear,  be  reasonable.  If  I 
did  not  think  it  best  for  your  happiness  and  prosperity,  I  would 
not  urge  it.  No,  not  to  prevent  myself  being  homeless  and 
starving  in  my  illness.  But,  Jacquelina,  look  on  both  sides  of 
the  subject.  If  you  do  not  marry  H)r.  Grimshaw,  your  uncle 
will  disinherit  you,  and  send  us  both  out,  houseless  wanderers ; 
here  is,  then,  on  one  side,  beggary  and  a  blighted  name.  On 
the  other,  wealth  and  position.  Jacquelina,  my  child,  this  is 
no  Arcadian  world — whose  people  can  live  on  sentiment, 
heroism,  love,  or,  still  less,  on  'freedom,  fun  and  frolic,'  your 
favorite  watch- words.  Those  who  are  well  housed,  well  clothed, 
and  well  fed,  have  abundance  to  be  thankful  for.  They  can  do 
without  the  ideal  raptures  of  love  and  romance,  and  the  rest  of 
the  nonsense  that  exists  nowhere  but  in  the  crazed  brains  of 
poets  and  novelists.  Food,  and  clothing,  and  warmth,  and 
shelter,  are  the  necessaries  of  life ;  the  rest  is  but  fantastical 
foolishness ;  not  so  much  amiss  if  they  can  be  had  in  addition 
to  the  others,  but  never  to  be  purchased  at  their  expense. 
Now,  if  you  will  only  be  a  sensible  girl,  and  a  dutiful  child,  and 
marry  Dr.  Grimshaw,  you  will  have  all  these  things,  and  a 
husband  who  dotes  on  you  besides.  And  your  uncle  will  be 
very  good  to  you  when  once  you  have  sacrificed  your  will  to 
his  pleasure." 

All  tin's  time  Jacquelina  was  walking  up  and  down  the  floor, 


264  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

wringing  her  hands.  Presently  she  came  to  her  mother's  side, 
and  said, 

"  Mimmy,  don't  talk  any  longer  dear !  There's  a  bright  spot 
on  your  cheek  now,  and  your  fever  will  rise  again,  even  this 
morning.  I  will  see  what  can  be  done  to  bring  everybody  to 
reason!  I  will  not  believe  but  that  if  /remain  firm  and  faith- 
ful to  my  heart's  integrity,  there  will  be  some  way  of  escape 
made  between  these  two  alternatives." 

But  could  Sans  Souci  do  this  ?  Had  the  frolicsome  fairy 
sufficient  integral  strength  and  self-balance  to  resist  the  power- 
ful influences  gathering  around  her? 

The  clouds  thickened  and  darkened  over  her  head.  The 
circle  of  irresistible  fate  seemed  closing  about  her.  And  her 
efforts  to  dissolve  the  spell,  and  throw  off  the  influence,  were 
fitful,  flighty,  and  ineffectual.  And  what  was  it  that  crippled 
and  distracted,  and  made  impotent  her  resistance  ?  It  was  her 
love  for  her  sick,  and  helpless,  and  timid  mother.  Not  much 
reverence  had  Jacquelina  for  that  mother — not  much  reverence 
for  anything  on  earth,  had  the  elf;  but  a  tender,  nursing  love, 
without  much  respect — a  love  whose  character  was  betrayed  in 
the  petting  and  protecting  manner,  and  the  childish  names  by 
which  the  young  girl  would  address  her  parent.  That  poor, 
\veak  mother  was  the  stumbling  block  in  her  path  of  rectitude. 
Had  she  been  alone,  her  elastic  spirit  would  have  thrown  off  all 
weight,  and  stepped  forth,  free  and  fearless,  into  God's  world 
of  work ;  and  the  forest  fairy  would  have  become  a  toiling 
kitchen  "  brownie,"  rather  than  have  bartered  her  freedom  fur 
sloth  and  wealth.  But  the  choice  lay  between  her  own  happi- 
ness and  her  mother's  ease  and  comfort !  It  was,  therefore, 
with  something  like  a  wild,  amazed  despair,  that  the  girl  some- 
times realized  the  facts  of  her  position,  and  contemplated  the 
impending  doom.  For,  battle  and  strive  as  the  poor  thing 
might,  who  could  doubt  the  issue  ?  Neither  did  the  Commo- 
dore leave  her  at  peace  for  a  single  day.  She  avoided  her 
nncle  as  much  as  she  possibly  could,  and  defied  him  when  she 
met  him.  As  thus — when  encountering  him  on  the  stairs  or 
nt  the  I'flilc.  lio  u-nnld  nsk  her. 


CLIPPING    A    BIRD'S    WINGS.         265 

"Well,  are  you  making  preparations  for  getting  married,  or 
for  leaving  the  house,  which  ?" 

"Neither!  I  wouldn't  marry  the  Ogre  to  save  the  world 
from  a  general  conflagration  !  and  I  wont  budge  a  foot  out  of 
the  house  until  Miinmy  gets  well,  to  save  your  soul  alive  1 
There !" 

"  Oh  !  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  can  put  you  out !" 

"  I  defy  you  to  do  it !  You'd  get  mobbed  by  your  own 
colored  people  !  not  to  say  the  whole  county,  when  they  came 
to  know  it !  You  must  think  I'm  a  fool  1" 

"  I  do  think  so — but  I  advise  you  to  be  sensible,  and  pre- 
pare for  your  wedding  or  your  flitting,  for  the  day  is  fast  ap- 
proaching." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  is  !  A  good  many  things  might  happen  in 
a  few  days !  You  might  have  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  you  know, 
which  would  set  everything  right  at  once  !  For  my  part,  I  live 
in  hopes!" 

"  You  do  1  well,  I  live  in  certainties — for  on  Christmas  Eve, 
at  night,  you  either  enter  your  bridal  chamber,  or  get  thrust 
into  the  wintry  weather — and  not  you  alone,  but  your  mother 
too  !" 

"  Monstrous  sinner !  Oh  !  it  serves  me  just  right  for  crossing 
the  path  of  fate,  and  saving  you  from  the  flames.  I  wish  to 
goodness  I  had  let  you  be  burned  up — there  !" 

"  Oh  !  ho  !  ho !  ho  1"  roared  the  Commodore,  with  his  hoarse 
laugh — "  but  you  see  you  did  do  it !  It  was  your  fate  to  save 
me,  as  it  will  be  your  fate,  beyond  your  deserts,  to  take  '  Grim' 
for  your  lord  and  master." 

"  I'll  kill  him  first !— a  horrible  old  Vampire  !  Oh  !  I  wish 
I  were  a  gipsj,  or  circus  rider,  or  a  rope  dancer,  or  anything 
on  earth  that  is  free  and  merry." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  !  And  it  is  to  prevent  your  running  away 
with  some  travelling  menagerie,  that  I  intend  to  make  you  safe 
under  Grim's  control." 

"  I'll  run  away  afterwards!  I  wont  marry  him  at  all,  I  mean 
but  if  I  did,  I'd  run  away  from  him,  the  ugly  old  Giraffe !" 


206  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Grim'  could  restrain  yon." 

"  I'd  break  his  heart !  I'd  drive  him  raving  mad,  and  make 
him  commit  suicide !" 

"  Grim'  will  risk  that." 

"  I'll  end  it  all,  and  drown  myself,  before  I'll  marry  him!" 

"  And  /'//  risk  that." 

Arid  many  such  conversations  as  this  would  ensue  between 
the  uncle  and  the  niece.  And  Sans  Souci  would  always  leave 
him  with  her  spirits  all  on  fire  with  opposition. 

And,  going  into  her  mother's  room,  she  would  exclaim, 

"  Mimmy  !  Be  a  woman  !  Bear  up,  Mimmy !  Oh,  Mimmy !  try 
«o  get  well,  and  help  me  to  withstand  this  monstrous  wickedness.'1 

But  little  help  did  the  poor  girl  get  from  her  feeble  mother, 
tfho  would  still  receive  her  pleadings  with  such  words  as  these 

"Oh,  Jacquelinal  your  perverseness  will  break  my  heart," 
or,  "  oh,  you  wild,  misguided  child !  you  will  kill  me." 

"  Miramy,  you  know  1  love  you  better  than  all  the  world." 

"  I  know  you  pretend  to  love  me ;  but  you  are  so  selfish  and 
hard  hearted,  that  you  would  rather  see  me  die  here  than  give 
up  your  own  wild,  foolish  will,  even  when  to  give  it  up  would 
be  for  your  own  good." 

During  these  interviews,  Sans  Souci  would  shed  the  bitterest 
tears  she  had  ever  shed  in  her  life,  and  she  would  retire  from 
them  with  her  spirits  depressed,  and  her  powers  of  resistance 
much  diminished. 

She  tried  and  succeeded  in  winning  the  cordial  sympathy  and 
co-operation  of  Mrs.  Waugh.  Henrietta  was  the  only  friend 
and  coadjutor  she  had  in  the  house.  Daily  and  hourly  she 
risked  the  storm  of  the  Commodore's  wrath,  by  her  silent,  steady 
system  of  opposition  to  his  views.  She  would  constantly  inter- 
vene as  a  shield  between  him  and  poor  Mary,  between  him  and 
Jacquelina,  and  between  Jacquelina  and  Doctor  Grinishaw. 
She  resolutely  expostulated  with  the  Commodore  about  the  cry- 
ing sin  of  ruining  the  whole  life's  happiness  of  a  poor  child — 
one,  especially,  who  had  saved  him  from  a  horrible  death  by 
fire,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  her  own  life. 


CLIPPING    A    BIRD'S    WINGS.        2GT 

"  Ah,  but  the  little  vixen !  she  says  she  is  sorry  she  did  it 
now!  And  that  wipes  out  the  remembrance  of  the  favor!" 
chuckled  the  Commodore. 

"  And  you  know  very  well  that  that  is  only  Lapwing's  wild 
talk  1  It  is  just  like  the  reckless  elf,  to  destroy  the  whole  effect  of 
an  act  of  heroism  by  a  little  petulance  !  You  know  that  even  now, 
badly  as  you  use  her,  were  your  life  again  in  danger,  she  would 
risk  her  own  to  save  yours.  You  know  it,  Commodore  Waugh. 
You  know  it,  yet  this  is  the  way  in  which  you  would  repay  her ! 
I  don't  see  how,  remembering  that  awful  night  when  she  saved 
you — you  can  persist  in  a  purpose,  that  if  carried  into  effect, 
will  utterly  crush  her  glad  heart,  and  break  her  high  spirit 
forever!" 

"  0-fi-h-h!"  roared  the  old  man,  suddenly  bringing  down  tho 
point  of  his  heavy  stick  upon  the  floor,  and  thrusting  forward 
his  huge  head ;  "  o-h-h-h !  what  right  has  a  female  to  spirit  ? 
She  has  a  great  deal  too  much  spirit !  She  is  an  impudent  minx, 
and  I  hope  Grim'  will  break  her  spirit,  that  is  all!" 

"I  should  advise  him  never  to  try  !  no  woman  worth  having 
can  ever  be  governed  except  through  her  affections,  or  her  con- 
science !  And  as  Jacquelina  neither  loves  nor  respects  the 
man  you  would  force  upon  her,  I  should  dread  for  him  to  try 
the  part  of  a  tyrant — he  would  find  the  most  dangerous  rebel 
that  ever  tyranny  created." 

"  I  mistake  Grim'  if  he  don't  know  how  to  manage  a  refrac- 
tory girl,  as  long  as  he  has  been  used  to  governing  rebellious 
boys !" 

"  You  can  talk  of  your  niece  in  that  way !  And  she  saved 
you  from  a  death  by  fire!  saved  you  at  the  imminent  hazard  of 
meeting  the  same  horrible  fate  !  saved  you,  when  not  a  strong, 
brave  man  on  the  plantation  would  dare  the  attempt !  She,  a 
young,  fragile  girl,  dared  to  do  it,  and  I  firmly  believe  a  miracle 
assisted  her !  And  this  is  the  way  you  repay  her !" 

"  ' This  is  the  way  I  repay  her!'  Yes,  this  is  the  way  I  re- 
pay her !  and  a  very  good  way,  too  ! — none  better  1  What  tho 
fiend  would  you  have  ?  I  give  her  a  large  fortune,  and  a  good 


268  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

husband  to  take  care  of  it  for  her,  and  to  keep  her  out  of  mis- 
chief, and  make  her  behave  herself!" 

"  I  assure  you,  Commodore  Waugh,  that  I  shall  do  all  I  can 
to  prevent  this  great  wrong.  And  if  it  is  to  go  on,  I  will  have 
no  hand  whatever  in  it.  I  will  not  make  the  slightest  prepara- 
tions for  it,  nor  countenance  the  atrocity  by  my  presence  at  the 
mockery  of  the  marriage  rites!" 

"  Then,  by  all  the  demons,  ma'am,  you  are  quite  welcome  to 
keep  away  !  Your  room  will  be  just  as  agreeable  as  your  com- 
pany !"  said  the  Commodore,  brutally. 

"And  more,  I  tell  you,  Commodore  Waugh!  if  you  do  com- 
mit the  heinous  crime  of  forcing  the  child  into  this  hated  mar- 
riage, a  curse  will  follow  it! — an  awful  punishment  will  fall 
upon  it!  a  fatal  catastrophe  will  end  it!  Be  warned  in  time!" 

"  D — n  !  ma'am,  silence  with  your  croaking  !  Do  you  think 
I'm  to  be  scared  from  my  purpose  by  the  voice  of  an  old  raven  ?" 

Mrs.  Waugh's  next  essay  was  with  Doctor  Grimshaw  him- 
self. She  seized  the  opportunity  when  he  occupied  the  parlor 
alone.  She  went  up  to  him,  and  saying  that  she  wished  f^ 
have  a  few  moments  of  private  convei'sation  with  him,  she  sat 
down  by  his  side,  and  delicately  approached  the  subject.  She 
then  spoke  of  the  general  unsuitability  of  a  marriage  between 
himself  and  her  niece. 

Doctor  Grimshaw  interrupted  her  by  politely  suggesting  that 
he  himself  might  be  considered  the  best  judge  of  that. 

Mrs.  Waugh  persisted  in  expressing  her  doubts  upon  that 
very  point.  She  spoke  of  the  glaring  disaparity  of  their  re- 
spective ages  and  characters — her  merry  thoughts.  Jacquelina, 
she  said,  could  never  make  a  proper  and  suitable  companion 
for  the  grave  and  learned  Professor  Grimshaw. 

Doctor  Grimshaw  smiled,  and  thanking  her  for  the  question- 
able compliment,  begged  her  to  understand  that  he  did  not 
even  expect  or  wish  to  find  in  Miss  L'Oiseau  an  intellectual 
companion — that  in  his  library  and  among  his  brother  pro 
fessors,  he  found  sufficient  of  intellectual  sympathy — that  he 
rather  disliked  intellectual  women,  and  never  should  dream  of 


CLIPPING      A      BIRD'S      WINGS.  26$ 

selecting  one  for  his  v/ife — that  in  Miss  L'Oiseau's  delightful 
beauty  and  refreshing  wit  he  sought  only  the  necessary  relaxa- 
tion from  graver  thoughts  and  studies. 

"  And  she  is  no  more  intended  for  a  pedant's  toy  than  a  sul- 
tan's slave  !"  exclaimed  Henrietta,  indignantly.  "Dr.  Grim- 
shaw,  you  have  been  intimate  enough  with  this  family,  and 
deep  enough  in  the  Commodore's  counsels  to  know  exactly  how 
this  matter  stands.  You  know  Jacquelina's  unconquerable  repug- 
nance to  this  union,  and  you  know  the  motives  and  influences 
that  have  been  brought  to  bear  upon  the  child  to  compel  her  to 
receive  you  as  a  suitor.  And  knowing  this,  if  you  are  the 
man  of  honor  that  I  hope  to  find  you,  you  will  never  permit 
yourself  to  be  forced  upon  her  acceptance  !" 

'•  Madam,  being  sincerely  attached  to  Miss  L'Oiseau,  and 
having  her  uncle's,  your  husband's,  sanction  for  addressing  her, 
you  cannot  very  severely  blame  me  for  seeking  to  overcome  the 
obstacles  of  the  young  lady's  prejudices  and  dislike,  and  to  win 
her  regard." 

"Dr.  Grimshaw,  your  specious  words  deceive  you  no  more 
than  they  do  myself.  You  are  perfectly  well  aware  that  your 
suit  to  Jacqueiina  is  unwelcome  and  distressing  to  the  last  de- 
gree— and  if  you  have  any  manhood,  not  to  say  humanity,  or 
dignity,  or  delicacy  of  character,  you  will  immediately  with- 
draw it." 

"  Mrs.  Waugh's  words  are  severe !  and  yet  I  am  sorry  I  can- 
not oblige  her  in  this  particular  matter !"  answered  the  Professor, 
bowing. 

"  And  in  that  case,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  withdraw  my  con- 
fidence and  esteem  from  Doctor  Grimshaw  !" 

"I  shall  be  extremely  grieved  and  mortified  to  lose  Mrs 
Waugh's  good  opinion,"  said  the  Professor,  rising  and  bowing 
ironically;  "there  is  indeed  but  one  thing  to  console  me  for 
the  want  of  it,  and  that  is,  the  fair  hand  of  her  charming 
iiiece  !" 

It  was  with  difficulty  Henrietta  could  abstain  from  saving, 

"  Iii  future,  when  Dr.  Grimshaw  honors  this  house  with  his 
17 


270  THE      MISSING      BRIDE, 

presence,  he  will  do  me  a  favor  by  not  addressing  one  word  of 
his  conversation  to  me!" 

But  she  did  restrain  herself,  and  passed  from  the  room  to 
seek  tne  presence  of  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  in  whom  her  last  hope  of 
saving  Jacquelina  rested. 

She  found  her  in  her  chamber,  where,  even  when  not  confined 
by  weakness,  she  chose  to  remain,  to  keep  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  of  that  terrible  bug-bear,  the  Commodore. 

"  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  seating  herself  beside  her,  "I 
come  to  you  to  tell  you  that  you  must  save  your  child  from  this 
hideous  injustice  !  Only  you  can  do  it,  and  you  must!" 

"  Oh,  dear !  oh,  blessed  saints !  what  can  I  do  ?  I'm  sure 
my  uncle  frightens  me  almost  to  death  with  his  threats  ?" 

"  You  must  not,  through  any  fear  of  consequences  to  your- 
self, permit  this  great  wrong  to  be  done  to  ^our  child !  If  you 
do,  mind  I  tell  you  it  will  meet  with  a  terrible  retribution. 
You  are  her  mother,  and  you  can  interpose  to  save  her.  You 
can  do  it  with  authority.  Only  you  can  do  it!  Rouse  your- 
self !  Stand  by  her  in  her  trouble,  Mary,  and  God  will  sustain' 
you !  The  very  birds  of  the  air  and  beasts  of  the  field  defend 
their  young !  be  up  to  their  level,  for  Heaven's  sake,  and  defend 
yours !" 

"  Defend  her  from  what  ?  Dc-ar  me,  it  seems  as  if  a  good 
match  were  not  such  a  bad  thirg.  I  believe  you're  all  out  of 
your  senses,  and  you  want  to  hill  me  with  your  scenes  !  "\Vhat 
can  /do — poor,  feeble,  dependent  creature  that  I  am  !" 

"What  can  you  do!"  exclaimed  Henrietta,  indignantly; 
"you  can  teach  her  by  your  example — by  your  courage  and 
patience,  to  brave  any  fate  rather  than  barter  the  integrity 
of  her  soul  for  ease  and  wealth !  You  can  take  her  by  the 
hand  and  go  forth  into  the  wide  world  if  necessary,  to  seek  a 
home  with  strangers,  or  from  charity !  You  can  encourage  her, 
protect  her,  defend  her ;  you  can  suffer  with  her,  and  for  her — • 
us  God  knows,  if  she  were  my  child,  /would,  rather  than  see  her 
BO  bitterly  wronged !" 

"Oh!"  whined  the  sufferer,  "it  is  easy  for  you  to  talk — you, 


CLIPPING      A       BIRD'S       WINGS.  271 

who  haven't  got  it  to  do.  We  can  all  of  ns  be  patient  or  cou- 
rageous or  anything  by  proxy." 

"  I  would  I  stood  in  your  place!  I  would  do  more  than  I 
have  said  !  I  would  die  with  and  for  my  child,  rather  than  see 
her  left  to  so  much  misery  !" 

"Oh,  do  go  away!  You  make  me  nervous  and  feverish! 
It  is  bad  enough  to  have  Uncle  Nick's  abuse  for  not  making 
her  marry  Grim',  without  having  yours  for  not  preventing  her 
doing  it.  I  am  just  between  two  fires.  I  do  believe  you  mean 
to  drive  me  crazy,  between  yon  !" 

Once  more  upon  this  day  an  indignant  scathing  reply  arose 
to  Mrs.  Waugh's  lips,  and  they  burned  to  say,  "  Of  all  the 
cowardice  and  meanness  in  this  world,  that  which  hinders  &, 
mother  from  being  just  to  her  daughter  certainly  is  the  most 
loathly !  There  is  no  such  thing  in  the  brute  creation !  it  is 
only  to  be  found  in  lost  human  nature  !"  But  again  she  bit  her 
lips  in  silence,  and  arose  and  left  the  room.  She  found  Jacque- 
lina  in  the  passage,  on  her  way  to  her  mother's  room.  Mrs. 
Waugh  motioned  her  in  silence  to  go  in.  Now  Henrietta  cer- 
tainly thought  she  was  entitled  to  the  willful  girl's  gratitude  for 
the  interest  she  had  taken,  and  the  rebuffs  she  had  received  in 
her  cause.  Judge  then  of  the  good  woman's  surprise  when,  in 
the  course  of  the  evening,  Jacquelina  came  in  and  roundly  took 
her  to  task  for  lecturing  her  "  Mimmy"  into  a  fever. 

"  She  can't  stand  it,  aunty!  And  if  you  waked  and  watched 
with  her  as  /  do  every  night,  you'd  know  how  bad  her  nights 
are !" 

"  Oh  !  child — "  begun  Henrietta ;  but  whatever  she  was 
about  to  say  was  drowned  in  tears,  as  she  covered  her  face  and 
wept. 

In  an  instant  Jacqnelina's  arms  were  around  her  neck. 

"Aunty!  aunty!  dear,  good  aunty!  don't  cry!  what  are 
you  crying  about  ?  Have  I  hurt  your  feelings  ?  I  never 
meant  to !" 

•'  No  !  no  I  little  Lapwing  !  you  didn't  hurt  my  feelings  " 

"  What  are  you  crying  about  then,  aunty  ?     Don't  cry !" 


272  THE      MISSINu      BKIDE. 

"  About  the — way — they — treat — you,  Lapwing !"  sobbed 
Henrietta. 

"Don't  they,  though1?  Never  mind!  I'll  pay  them  with 
compound  interest !  Now  look  here,  aunty  I  stop  this  !  if  you 
keep  on  so,  I  shall  go  ramping  mad!  I  know  I  shall!  What 
do  you  cry  about  me  for?  /don't  cry  for  myself?  Catch  me 
at  it  I  For  wont  I  lead  him  a  life?  Instead  of  breaking  my 
own  heart  about  it,  I  mean  to  break  his!  I  vow  to  '  Sam,'  that 
I'll  drive  him  frantic,  and  make  him  run  his  head  against  a  wall, 
and  butt  his  brains  out  before  the  honeymoon  is  over !  Oh ! 
I'll  train  him !  You  shall  see  fun  alive  at  Locust  Hill !  So 
cheer  up,  aunty !  or  if  you  must  cry,  just  cry  for  poor  Grim'  I 
it  will  be  a  charity!" 

As  the  decisive  day  approached,  Jacqueliua  certainly  acted 
like  one  distraught — now  in  wild  defiance,  now  in  paleness  and 
tears,  and  anon  in  fitful  mirth,  or  taunting  threats.  She  rapidly 
lost  flesh  and  color,  and  in  hysterical  laughter  accounted  for  it 
by  saying  that  she  believed  in  her  soul  Grim'  was  a  spiritual 
vampire,  who  preyed  upon  her  life  !  She  avoided  him  as  much 
as  she  could.  And  if  sometimes,  when  she  was  about  to  escape 
from  him,  he  would  seize  her  wrist  and  detain  her,  she  would 
suddenly  lose  her  breath,  and  turn  so  pale,  that  in  the  fear  of 
her  fainting,  he  would  release  her.  So  he  got  no  opportunity 
to  press  his  claims. 

One  morning,  however — it  was  about  a  week  before  Christ- 
mas— she  voluntarily  sought  his  presence.  She  entered  the 
parlor  where  he  sat  alone.  Excitement  had  flushed  her  cheeks 
with  a  vivid  crimson,  and  lighted -her  eyes  with  sparkling  fire — 
she  did  not  know  that  her  beauty  was  enhanced  a  thousand  fold 
— she  did  not  know  that  never  in  her  life  had  her  presence 
kindled  such  a  flame  in  the  heart  of  her  lover  as  it  did  at  that 
moment.  And  if  he  restrained  himself  from  going  to  meet  her, 
it  was  the  dread  lest  she  should  fade  away  from  him,  as  he  had 
seen  her  do  so  often.  But  she  advanced  and  stood  before  him. 

"Dr.  Grimshaw  !"  she  said,  "I  have  come  to  make  a  last 
appeal  to  you !  I  have  come  to  beg,  to  supplicate  you,  for  my 


CLIPPING      A      BIRD'S      WINGS.  273 

sake,  for  honor,  for  truth  and  for  mercy's  sake,  yes !  for  heaven's 
sake,  to  withdraw  your  pretensions  to  my  poor  hand !  For,  sir,  T 
do  not  and  I  can  not  like  you !  I  do  not  say  but  that  you  are  far 
too  good  and  wise,  and  every  way  too  worthy  for  such  a  girl  as 
I  am — and  that  you  do  me  the  very  greatest  honor  by  your 
preference,  but  still  no  one  can  account  for  tastes — and,  sir,  I 
cannot  like  you — pray,  pardon  me  !  indeed,  I  cannot  help  it." 

Although  her  words  were  so  humble,  her  color  was  still 
heightened,  and  her  eyes  had  a  threatening  defiant  sparkle  in 
them,  so  contradictory,  so  piquant  and  fascinating  in  contrast 
with  the  little  fragile,  graceful,  helpless  form,  that  his  head  was 
almost  turned.  It  was  with  difficulty  he  could  keep  from 
snatching  the  fluttering,  half  defiant,  half  frightened,  bird-like 
creature  to  his  bosom.  But  he  contented  himself  with  saying, 

"  My  fairy !  we  are  commanded  to  love  those  that  hate  us ; 
and  should  you  hate  me  more  than  ever,  I  should  only  continue 
to  love  you!" 

"  Love  me  at  a  distance,  then  !  and  »the  greater  the  distance, 
the  more  grateful  I  shall  be!" 

He  could  no  longer  quite  restrain  himself.  He  seized  her 
hani  and  drew  her  towards  him,  exclaiming,  in  an  eager, 
breathless,  half  whisper, 

"  Xo !  closer  and  closer  shall  my  love  draw  us,  beautiful  one  ! 
until  it  compasses  your  hate  and  unites  us  forever  1" 

With  a  half  suppressed  cry,  she  wrung  her  hand  from  his 
grasp,  and  answered  wildly, 

"  I  sought  your  presence,  to  entreat  you — and  to  warn  you  ' 
I  have  supplicated  you,  and  you  have  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  my 
prayer!  Now  I  warn  you  !  and  disregard  my  warning,  if  you 
dare  !  despise  it  at  your  peril  1  I  am  going  out  of  my  wits,  1 
think  !  I  warn  you  that  I  may  consent  to  become  your  wife ! 
I  have  no  persevering  resistance  in  my  nature.  I  cannot  hold 
out  forever  against  those  I  love.  But  I  warn  you,  that  if  ever 
I  consent,  it  will  be  under  the  undue  influence  of  others !" 

"Put  your  consent  upon  any  ground  you  please,  you  de- 
lightful, you  enchanting  little  creature.  We  will  spare  your 


274  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

blushes,  charming  as  they  are !"  he  exclaimed,  surprised  out  of 
self-control,  and  seizing  both  her  hands. 

Angrily  she  snatched  them  from  him. 

"  What  have  I  said  ?  Oh !  what  have  I  said  ?  I  believe  I 
am  going  crazy  I  I  tell  you,  Doctor  Grimshaw,  that  if  1  ever 
yield,  it  will  be  only  to  the  overwhelming  force  brought  to  bear 
upon  me ;  and  even  then  it  will  be  only  during  a  temporary  fit 
of  insanity !  And  I  warn  you — I  warn  you,  not  to  dare  to 
take  me  at  my  word!" 

"Will  I  not?  Yon  bewitching  little  sprite!  do  you  do  this 
to  make  me  love  you  ten  thousand  times  more  than  I  do  ?" 

Passionately  she  broke  forth  in  reply — 

"  You  do  not  believe  me !  You  do  not  see  that  I  am  in  ter- 
rible earnest !  I  tell  you,  Doctor  Grimshaw,  that  were  I  in- 
duced to  consent  to  be  your  wife,  you  had  better  not  take  ad- 
vantage of  such  a  consent !  It  would  be  the  most  fatal  day's 
work  you  ever  did  for  yourself  in  this  world !  You  think  I'm 
only  a  spoiled,  petulant  child !  You  do  not  know  me  !  I  do 
not  know  myself!  I  am  full  of  evil!  I  feel  it  sensibly,  when 
I  am  near  you !  You  develope  the  worst  of  me !  Should  you 
marry  me,  the  very  demon  would  rise  in  my  bosom !  I  should 
drive  you  to  distraction  !" 

"  You  drive  me  to  distraction  now,  you  intoxicating  little 
witch !"  he  exclaimed,  laughing,  and  darting  towards  her. 

She  started  and  escaped  his  hand,  crying, 

"  Saints  in  Heaven  !  What  infatuation  I  What  madness  1 
It  must  be  fate  !  Avert  the  fate,  man  !  Avert  it !  while  there 
is  yet  time  !  Go  get  a  mill-stone  and  tie  it  around  your  neck, 
and  cast  yourself  into  the  uttermost  depths  of  the  sea,  before 
.ever  you  dare  to  marry  me !"  Her  cheeks  were  blazing  with 
color,  and  her  eyes  with  light !  He  saw  only  her  transcendai  t 
beauty. 

"  Why,  you  little  tragi-comic  enchantress,  yon  ! — what  do 
you  mean  ?  Come  to  my  arms !  Come,  wild,  bright  bird ! 
come  to  my  bosom  !"  he  said,  stepping  towards  hev,  and  throw- 
ing his  arms  around  her. 


CLIPPING    A    BIRD'S    WINGS.         275 

"  Vampire  !"  she  exclaimed,  straggling  to  free  herself  for  a 
moment ;  and  then  as  his  lips  sought  hers  the  color  faded  from 
her  face  and  the  light  died  in  her  eyes,  and  he  hastily  released 
her  and  set  her  in  a  chair  lest  she  should  swoon  in  his  hated 
arms. 

"  Now  how  am  I  expected  to  live  with  such  a  wife  as  this 
girl  would  make  me  ?  If  it  were  not  for  the  estate  I  should 
be  tempted  to  give  her  up,  and  travel  to  forget  her  !  How  shall 
I  overcome  her  repugnance  ?  Not  by  courting  her,  that's  de- 
monstrated !  Only  by  being  kind  to  her,  and  letting  her  alone." 
Such  was  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts  as  he  stood  a  little  behind 
her  chair  out  of  her  sight. 

But  Jacquelina,  when  she  found  herself  free,  soon  recovered, 
and  arose  and  left  the  room. 

Why  prolong  the  struggle  ? — the  sorrowful,  ineffectual  strug- 
gle of  a  captured  bird  against  the  net  drawing  around  it.  Grief 
and  fear  and  anxiety  were  new  experience  to  Sans  Souci's 
sunny,  buoyant  nature,  and  most  strange  and  startling  was  the 
effect  upon  her.  Defying,  sinking,  threatening,  yielding — so 
alternately  she  passed  the  time. 

And  now  in  laughter — now  in  tears, 
And  madly  still  in  each  extreme 
.^lie  strove. 

Until  a  day  or  two  before  Christmas,  when,  in  the  evening,  she 
glided  in  to  her  uncle's  room  and  sunk  down  by  his  side — so 
unlike  herself — so  like  a  spirit — that  the  old  sinner  impulsively 
shrank  away  from  her,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  ring  for  lights. 

"No  !  don't  send  for  candles,  uncle  !  Such  a  wretch  as  I  am 
should  tell  her  errand  in  the  dark." 

"  What  do  you  mean  now,  Minx  ?" 

"  Uncle !  in  all  your  voyages  round  the  world  did  you  ever 
stop  at  Constantinople  ?  and  did  you  ever  visit  a  slave  mart 
there  ?" 

"  Yes — of  course  I  have  ! — what  then  ? — what — the — deuce 
are  you  dreaming  of?" 

"  How  much  would  such  a  girl  as  myself  bring  in  the  slave 
narket  of  the  Sultan's  citv  ?" 


276  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"Are  you  crazy?"  asked  the  Commodore,  opening  his  eyes 
to  their  widest  extent. 

"  I  don't  know  1  If  I  am  it  can  make  little  difference  in  your 
plans.  But  as  there  is  method  in  my  madness,  please  to  answer 
my  question.  How  much  would  I  sell  for  in  Constantinople  ?" 

"You  are  mad,  that's  certain!  How  do  I  know — where 
beauties  sell  for  from  five  hundred  to  many  thousand  zechins. 
But  you  wouldn't  sell  for  much,  you're  too  small  and  too  thin." 

"  Beauty  sells  by  the  weight,  does  it  ?  Well,  uncle  !  I  see 
that  you  have  been  accustomed  to  the  mart,  for  you  know  how 
to  cheapen  the  merchandize  !  Save  yourself  the  trouble,  uncle ! 
I  shall  not  live  long,  and  therefore  I  shall  not  have  the  con- 
science to  ask  a  high  price  for  myself  ?" 

"  Mad  !  Mad  as  a  March  hare  !  as  sure  as  shooting  she  is  !" 
said  the  Commodore  in  dismay,  starting  at  her  until  his  great 
fat  eyes  seemed  bursting  from  their  sockets. 

"  Not  so  mad  as  you  think,  uncle,  either.  I  have  come  to 
make  a  bargain  with  you  !" 

"  What  the  foul  fiend  do  you  mean  now  ?  Do  you  want  me 
to  send  you  to  Constantinople,  pray  ?" 

Jacquelina  laughed,  something  like  her  old  silvery  laugh,  as 
she  answered, 

"  No,  uncle  !  though  if  it  were  not  for  Mimmy,  I  really  should 
prefer  it  to  marrying  Grim' !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  then  ?     Speak  !" 

"  This  then,  uncle.  By  what  I  have  heard,  and  what  I  have 
seen,  and  what  I  have  surmised,  I  am  already  as  deep  in  your 
secrets  respecting  Grim'  as  you  are  yourself!" 

"You.  speak  falsely,  you  little !  No  one  knows  any- 
thing about  it  but  myself?"  exclaimed  the  Commodore,  betray- 
ing himself  through  astonishment  and  indignation. 

Without  heeding  the  contradiction,  except  by  a  sly  smile, 
Jacquelina  went  calmly  on — 

"And  I  know  that  you  wish  to  make  me  a  stalking-horse,  to 
convey  the  estate  to  Grimshaw,  only  because  you  cannot  give  it 
to  him  in  any  other  way  but  through  his  wife." 


CLIPPING    A    BIRD'S    WINGS.  277 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  little  diabolical —  !  It  is  my  own 
— why  can  I  not  give  it  to  whom  I  please,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"  You  can  give  it  to  any  one  in  the  world,  uncle,  except  Dr. 
Grirashaw,  or  to  one  who  bears  the  same  relationship  to  you 
that  he  does — for  to  such  a  one  you  may  not  legally  bequeath 
yonr  landed  estate — or — " 

"  You  shocking,  impudent  little  vixen  !  how  dare  you  talk  so  ?" 

"  Hear  me  out,  uncle  !  I  say,  knowing  such  to  be  the  case, 
I  also  know  my  own  importance  as  a  'stalking-horse,'  or  sump- 
ter-mule,  or  something  of  the  sort,  to  bear  upon  my  own 
shoulders  the  burden  of  this  estate,  which  you  wish  to  give  by 
me  to  Dr.  Grirashaw.  Therefore,  I  shall  not  give  myself  away 
for  nothing.  I  intend  to  sell  myself  for  a  price  !  Nothing  on 
earth  would  induce  me  to  consent  to  marry  Dr.  Grimshaw,  were 
it  not  to  secure  peace  and  comfort  to  my  mother's  latter  days. 
Your  threat  of  turning  me  out  of  doors  would  not  compel  me 
into  such  a  marriage,  for  well  I  know  that  you  would  not  ven- 
ture to  put  that  threat  into  execution.  But  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  my  poor  mother  suffer  so  much  as  she  does  while  here,  de- 
pendent upon  your  uncertain  protection.  You  terrify  and  dis- 
tress her  beyond  her  powers  of  endurance.  Y"ou  make  the 
bread  of  dependence  very,  very  bitter  to  her,  indeed !  And  well 
I  know  that  she  will  certainly  die,  if  she  remains  subjected  to 
your  powers  of  tormenting.  I  speak  plainly  to  you,  uncle, 
naving  nothing  to  conceal ;  to  proceed,  I  assure  you  I  will  not 
meet  your  views  in  marrying  Dr.  Grimshaw,  unless  it  be  to  pur- 
chase for  my  poor  mother  a  deliverance  from  bondage,  and  an 
independence  for  life.  Therefore,  I  demand  that  you  shall  buy 
this  place,  '  Locust  Hill,'  which  I  hear  can  be  bought  for  five 
thousand  dollars,  and  settle  it  upon  my  mother — in  return  for 
which,  I  will  bestow  my  hand  in  marriage  upon  Dr.  Grimshaw  ! 
And  mind  1  I  do  not  promise  with  it  either  love,  or  esteem,  or 
service — only  my  hand  in  civil  marriage,  and  the  estate  it  has 
the  power  of  carrying  with  it!  And  the  documents  that  shall 
make  my  mother  independent  of  the  world,  must  be  drawn  up 


278  THE      MISSING      BRIDE, 

or  examined  by  a  lawyer  that  she  shall  appoint,  and  must  be 
placed  in  her  hands  on  the  same  hour  that  gives  my  hand  to 
Dr.  Grirashaw.  Do  you  understand  ?  Now,  uncle  !  that  is  my 
ultimatum!  For,  please  the  heavens  above  us!  come  what 
may  !  do  what  you  will !  turn  me  and  my  mother  out  of  doors, 
to  freeze  and  starve !  I  will  die,  and  see  her  die,  before  I  will 
sell  my  hand  for  a  less  price  than  will  make  her  independent 
and  at  ease  for  life !  For,  look  you — I  would  rather  see  her 
dead,  than  leave  her  in  your  power !  Think  of  this,  uncle ! 
There  is  time  enough  to-morrow  and  next  day  to  make  all  the 
arrangements,  only  be  sure  I  am  in  earnest!  Look  in  my  face! 
Am  I  not  in  earnest  ?" 

"  I  think  you  are,  you  little  wretch  !  I  could  shake  the  life 
out  of  you !" 

"That  would  be  easy,  uncle !  There  is  not  much  to  shake 
out !  Only,  in  that  case,  you  would  have  no  stalking-horse  to 
take  the  estate  over  to  Dr.  Grimshaw."  And  so  saying,  Jac- 
quelina  arose  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Come  back  here,  you  little  vixen,  you !" 

Sans  Souci  returned. 

"  It's  well  to  '  strike  white  the  iron's  hot,'  and  to  bind  you 
while  you're  willing  to  be  bound — for  you  are  an  uncertain 
little  villain  !  Though  I  don't  believe  you'd  break  a  solemn 
pledge  once  given — hey !" 

"  No,  sir !" 

"  Pledge  me  your  word  of  honor,  now,  that  if  I  buy  this  littlo 
farm  of  Locust  Hill,  and  settle  it  upon  your  mother,  yon  will 
marry  Doctor  Grimshaw  on  this  coming  Christinas  Eve  ?" 

"  I  pledge  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I  will." 

"  Without  mental  reservation  ?" 

""Without  mental  reservation  !" 

"  Stop  !  it  is  safer  to  seal  such  a  pledge  !  Climb  up  on  the 
stand,  and  hand  me  that  Bible  down  off  the  top  shelf.  Brush 
the  cobwebs  off  it,  and  don't  let  the  spiders  come  with  it." 

Jacquelina  did  as  she  was  bid,  with  a  half  indifferent,  half 
d  tdainful  air. 


CLIPPING      A      BIRDS      WINGS.  273 

"  There  !  Now  lay  your  hand  upon  this  book,  and  swear  by 
the  Holy  Evangelists  of  Almighty  God,  that  you  will  do  as  you 
have  pledged  yourself  to  do." 

"I  swear!"  said  Jacqnelina. 

"  Very  well !  Now,  confound  you,  you  may  put  the  book 
back  again,  and  go  about  your  business." 

Sans  Souci  very  willingly  complied.  And  then,  as  she  left 
tne  room  and  closed  the  door  after  her,  her  quick  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  the  Commodore's  voice,  chuckling, 

"So!  I've  trapped  you !  Ten  minutes  more,  and  it  would 
have  been  impossible." 

Full  of  wonder  as  to  what  his  words  might  mean,  doubting 
also  whether  she  had  heard  them  aright,  Jacquelina  was  hasting 
on  towards  her  mother's  room,  when  she  met  her  aunt  Henrietta, 
hurrying  towards  her,  and  speaking  impetuously, 

"Oh,  my  little  Lapwing,  where  have  you  been?  I  have 
been  looking  for  you  all  over  the  house  !  Good  news,  dear 
Lapwing  1  Good  news  !  Deliverance  is  at  hand  for  you  1 
Who  do  you  think  has  come  ?" 

"  Who  ? — who  ?"  questioned  Sans  Souci,  eagerly. 

"  CLOUDY  1" 

"Lost!  lost!"  cried  the  wretched  girl,  and,  with  a  wild 
shriek  that  rang  through  all  the  house,  she  threw  up  her  arms 
aud  fell  forward  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

A     GRIM     WEDDING. 


Oh!  mother,  mother,  aftpr  this  fall  marriage, 

Let  vultures  wi-d  with  larks,  and  wolves  with  kids, 

Aod  every  creature  with  its  mortal  foe.''  —  jYiio  Drama. 


N-  Jacquelina  recovered  her  senses,  she  found  herself  in 
her  night-dress,  lying  upon  her  own  white  draperied  bed.  A 
dim  fire  was  burning  on  the  little  hearth,  and,  by  its  fitful  light, 
the  room  looked  strange  and  ghostly  —  there  was  something 
weird  even  in  the  fat  form  of  good  Henrietta,  as  she  stood  by 
the  bed  holding  the  bottle  of  cologne  water,  and  the  saturated 
cambric  handkerchief,  with  which  she  had  just  been  bathing  the 
poor  girl's  face  and  head. 

"What  —  what  is  all  this  about,  aunty?  Is  anything  the 
matter?"  asked  Jacquelina,  in  a  faint,  uncertain  voice. 

"Nothing  but  a  little  fainting  fit  you've  had,  Lapwing! 
They're  not  dangerous.  Aunty's  had  more  than  one  in  her  own 
time,  strong  as  she  looks  now,  and  you  are  getting  over  it  al- 
ready. Come  !  smell  this." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  —  I  know  now,"  said  Sans  Souci,  as  memory 
slowly  returned. 

"  Aunty,  will  you  go  and  send  mother  to  me  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  not,  my  dear,  She  doesn't  know  that  you 
fainted." 

"  Don't  tell  her,  then.  Only  say  I'm  tired  and  have  gone 
to  bed,  and  ask  her  to  come," 

"  I  would  much  rather  not,  my  dear.  I  want  to  have  you  all  to 
myself  to-night,  to  take  care  of  you,  and  then  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Oh  1  no,  don't  talk  to  me,  aunty.  Dear,  best  aunty  that 
ever  was  in  the  world  !  Don't  talk  to  me  —  they've  all  talked  to 
me  too  much  ;  my  head  can't  bear  it,  I  believe." 

"  Honey  !  about  Cloudy." 
(280) 


A      GRIM      MARRIAGE.  281 

"  Oh  !  don't — I  know  ! — oh  !  never,  again,"  she  said,  inco- 
herently,  and  beginning  to  tremolo. 

Henrietta  poured  the  cologne  on  the  handkerchief,  and 
doused  her  forehead  and  temples. 

"That  will  do — thank  you,  dear  aunty — ask  mother  to 
come." 

Mrs.  Waugh  got  up  unwillingly,  and  left  the  room  to  do  as 
she  was  requested.  And  pres-ently  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
L'Oiseau  came  in.  Jacquelina's  eyes  were  wide  open,  and,  in 
the  shadow  of  her  festooned  curtains,  seemed  to  shine  like 
phosphorous. 

"  Are  you  sick,  my  dear?"  asked  Mary,  sitting  down  by  her 
side. 

"  No,  mother,  I  don't  know  what  I'm  lying  here  for — oh,  yes, 
I  did  what  you  told  me — and — where  was  I  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  tremble  so,  child  ?  Collect  your  thoughts  ; 
you  mentioned  the  purchase  of  Locust  Hill  to  your  uncle  ;  now, 
what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  he  will  do  it,  Mimray !  and  I  will  pay  the  price — 
ha!  ha!  ha!  Oh,  strange!" 

"  What  is  strange,  Jacquelina  ?  You  really  frighten  me! 
What  makes  you  go  on  so  ?" 

"  Life  is  ! — how  queer  ! — isn't  it  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  shining  like  two  stars,  and  the  burning  in- 
tensity of  their  gaze  seemed  to  tran-sfix  the  bosom  of  the  weak 
woman,  who  had  then  urged  her  child  to  the  very  brink  of  mad- 
ness. She  started  up,  and  moving  more  quickly  than  she  was 
accustomed  to  do,  hastened  to  her  own  chamber,  and  brought 
back  a  restorative,  which  she  forced  her  daughter  to  swallow, 
The  cordial  soon  took  effect,  and  the  girl  became  quiet,  and 
spoke  collectedly. 

"  Mother,  I  am  afraid  I'm  not  in  my  right  mind — something 
tingles  through  all  my  nerves  and  veins,  and  leaps  to  the  top 
of  my  head  ;  and  everything  looks  strange  and  grotesque  to  me  ; 
and  serious  things  provoke  laughter,  and  nothing  looks  real. 
Mother,  am  I  mad  ?" 
23* 


282  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"You  are  hysterical,  I  am  afraid,  child.  But  that  is  nothing, 
you  will  soon  get  over  it." 

"Mother!  Cloudy  has  come.  His  ship  is  at  Norfolk.  And 
he  will  be  here  soon." 

"  Well,  my  dear — what  of  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  My  head  is  very  weak — very  weak.  I 
am  a  very  fragile  creature,  mother.  But  I  am  not  unhappy  ;  that 
is  a  good  thing,  sure  enough.  I  am  nothing  but  a  fay,  mother; 
not  half  good  enough  for  dearest  Cloudy." 

"Now  what  do  you  talk  about  Cloudesley  Mornington  for? 
What  has  he  to  do  with  the  subject  on  hand  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure  ;  if  I  ever  did,  it  has  gone  from 
my  mind  now." 

"  Try  to  compose  yourself,  my  dear,  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  Sleep  ?  Oh  !  I'm  not  sleepy  !  You  are  going  to  be  inde- 
pendent, Mini  my,  and  I  am  going  to  be  whirled  away  and  away 
like  a  leaf  on  a  stream,  no  matter  where." 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  thought  it  now  best  to  keep  silence,  so  she 
sat  watching  Jacquelina,  as  the  poor,  half-conscious  girl  lay 
there,  letting  her  hand  wander  over  the  quilted  figures  on  the 
Marseilles  counterpane.  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  said  to  herself, 

"  This  is  only  hysterical  ;  this  is  the  worst  pass,  the  crisis ; 
let  us  be  firm  here — let  her  be  pushed  through  this,  and  all 
the  rest  will  be  smooth  ;  her  life  will  settle  down  to  the  ordinary 
level  of  other  lives  ;  not  happy,  not  miserable  will  she  be,  but 
as  others.  Only  one  thing  is  certain,  Clondesley  must  not  be 
permitted  to  come  home  to  this  house,  and  I  must  see  my  uncle 
about  that  directly." 

And  so,  while  the  poor  girl  lay  only  half  conscious,  her  mother 
went  out  and  sought  the  presence  of  the  Commodore,  and  gave 
liim  the  warning. 

"  Oh  !  I  know,"  he  said.  "  Who  do  yo.u  think  is  a  fool  ?  I 
wrote  to  him  this  very  night  to  stay  away." 

Vain  was  that  letter!  for  the  very  hour  that  saw  it  start  from 

the  post-office  at  B ,  saw  Cloudy,  full  of  hope  and  joy,  leave 

Norfolk  for  home. 


A      GRIM       MARRIAGE.  28?) 

TKj  next  day  Jacquelina  was  lying  in  bed,  too  weak  to  rise, 
when  she  heard  a  little  bustle  as  of  some  sudden  arrival  below 
stairs — rising  on  her  elbow  she  listened  eagerly  Yes,  it  was 
Cloi.desley's  voice,  and  she  heard  him  ask  eagerly, 

"  Where  is  Lina  ?" 

"  Here !  here !  dear  Cloudy  !  Hun  up  here  !  Quick !  Quick, 
Cloudy,"  she  cried  vehemently,impetuously  rising  from  the  cloud 
of  drapery  around  her,  pale,  wan,  spiritual ;  not  like  Venus 
rising  from  the  sea  foam.  And  she  heard  his  impatient,  hasty 
step  upon  the  stairs,  as  he  ran  up,  and  hurried  in,  and  hurried 
to  her  bedside,  exclaiming, 

"  Sick,  Lina  ?" 

But  she  rose  up  and  threw  herself  upon  his  bosom,  even  as 
she  used  to  do  in  infancy,  and  clasped  her  arras  around  his  neck 
and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  clinging  and  sobbing,  clinging 
and  sobbing. 

"  Jacqueiina,  my  dear  child,  you  must  not  do  so  !  that  is  very 
wrong.  My  conscience!  what  will  Doctor  Grimshaw  say? 
And  your  uncle  ?  Jacquelina,  don't  do  so  !"  said  Mrs.  L'Oiseau, 
coming  around  from  the  other  side  of  the  bed. 

But  Jacquelina  clung  and  wept,  and  felt  Cloudesley's  heart 
swelling,  throbbing  against  her  own. 

"  What — what  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Cloudy,  in  great  per- 
plexity and  trouble. 

"  Why,  she's  engaged  to  be  married  to  Doctor  Grimshaw 
to-morrow  morning,  and  she  ought  not  to  do  so  !"  said  Mrs. 
L'Oiseau. 

Cloudy  grew  very  pale  and  compressed  his  lips,  and  tried  to 
unclasp  Jacquelina's  arms,  and  force  her  off.  But  she  clung 
and  wept  ;  crving  between  her  sobs, 

'Oh,  Cloudy!  let  me  !  let  me!  only  this  once!  I'll  soon 
get  clone !  and  then,  and  then,  never  come  again,  Cloudy 
Good-bye!  Good-bye  forever  !"  and  her  hands  released  their 
hold,  and  she  sunk  back.  And,  without  a  word,  Cloudy  turned 
and  left  the  room,  and  walked  down  stairs  and  took  his  hat,  and, 
without  saying  good-bye  to  a  single  soul,  left  the  house  forever. 


284  THE       MISSING       BRIDE. 

Jacquelina  wildly  stretched  her  arms  towards  her  mother. 

"Oh,  Mimray,  Mimmy!  it  was  for  your  sake  I  did  it— 
yours!  Oh,  Mimray,  hold  me,  hold  me  to  keep  my  heart  from 
breaking." 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  came  and  sat  down  by  her  and  took  her  hand, 
and  began  to  talk  to  her,  telling  her  that  she  was  a  good,  duti- 
ful child,  that  she  had  acted  nobly  and  disinterestedly,  and  that 
God  would  bless  and  prosper  her.  But  Jacquelina  shook  her 
Lead. 

"  No,  mother,  no  ;  what  you  say  is  not  so.  I  have  not  done 
well ;  God  will  not  bless  me.  But  oh,  Mimmy,  love  me,  love 
ine  a  great  deal  or  my  heart  will  break  ;  swathe  it,  bind  it  all 
around  with  your  love,  Mimmy,  and  keep  it  from  breaking. 
But  that's  so  selfish  in  me,  too,  for  what  will  he  do — poor 
fellow,  who  has  no  mother  ?" 

"  Who,  child,  Grim'  ?" 

"  '  Grim' !'  ha,  ha,  ha!  no  ;  had  Grim'  ever  a  mother  ?" 

"  How  you  act,  child.  Here,  take  your  rosary  and  say  your 
prayers,  it  will  compose  your  mind — " 

"  This  heart!  this  heart  /" 

"  What  are  you  talking  of,  child  ?" 

"  To  find  out  one  has  a  heart  first  by  its  acJting,  Mimmy?" 

"  It  will  go  off  soon,  dear." 

"  Yes  !     Will  it  ?" 

And  so — sometimes  weeping,  sometimes  rambling  in  her 
mind,  but  never  laughing,  or  defying,  or  threatening  as  before, 
Jacquelina  p.issed  the  day  and  night. 

"  This  is  the  worst ;  push  her  through,  rub  her  through  this 
crisis,  and  she  will  then  calm  down  and  be  resigned  ;  people 
can't  be  happy  in  this  sad  world,  but  let  them  learn  content- 
ment as  soon  as  they  can,"  said  Mary  L'Oiseau  to  herself.  And, 

"  Only  let  her  be  once  married  to  Grim',  and  d — dif  I  care." 
fiaid  the  Commodore  to  himself. 

The  struggle  was  over.  Sans  Souci  felt  it  to  be  over,  yet 
nothing  like  the  quietude  of  despair  fell  upon  her. 

The  marriage  was  appointed  to  take  place  after  matins,  at 
nine  o'clock,  Christinas  day,  in  the  Catholic  chapel. 


A      UKIM      MARRIAGE.  285 

That  morning  Jacquelina  arose  at  eight  from  her  restless 
couch,  and  suffered  her  mother  to  dress  her  in  bridal  array,  to 
set  the  wreath  of  orange  flowers  on  her  golden  ringlets,  to 
arrange  the  lace  veil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  to  draw  ou  her 
tiny  white  gloves,  all  in  silence. 

"  You  don't  speak  a  word  to  me,  Jacquelina." 

"  Because  I'm  so  tired,  Minimy.  Do  you  remember  the  man 
who  swore  he  wouldn't  get  up  and  be  hanged  because  he  hadn't 
got  his  nap  out  ?  Well  I  now  if  I  had  not  to  get  up  and  be 
married,  I  had  rather  lie  down  and  go  to  rest  again." 

"  You  talk  such  nonsense,  child  I  but  then  you  always  did. 
You  haven't  even  asked  who  were  to  be  your  bridesmaids  and 
groomsmen." 

"I  had  forgotten  such  attendants  were  necessary,  Mimmy." 

"Yes,  and  /suppose  if  /  had  been  as  thoughtless  as  you 
there  would  have  been  none  provided.  However,  they  are 
down  stairs,  waiting  to  attend  you  to  the  altar.  Come,  my 
child.  Y"ou  are  ready  now,  I  believe,  and  the  carriage  is 
waiting — shall  we  go  down  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mimray." 

"  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  opened  the  door,  and  held  it  open  in  a 
fidgetty,  impatient  manner,  but  still  Jacquelina  lingered. 

"  Come,  my  dear,  come,  what  are  you  waiting  for?" 

"  Mother,  not  one  blessing — not  one  '  God  speed'  to  me  be- 
fore I  go !  Even  the  ghastly  old  judge  says  '  God  have  mercy 
on  your  soul'  to  the  felon  he  sends  out  to  be  executed,  though 
I  never  knew  any  one  to  thrive  after  such  a  benediction !  But, 
mother,  '  I  have  great  need  of  blessing.' " 

"  Y'ou  are  a  little  goose,  Jacquelina!  of  course  I  mean — the 
'Lord  bless  you,'  certainly  I  do!  Yrou  might  have  known  it, 
without  my  saying  it !" 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well,  mother,  I  accept  it!"  said  the  bride, 
passing  out  and  descending  the  stairs. 

Doctor  GriLushaw  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  hall,  looking 
well,  if  he  ever  looked  well  in  his  life.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
suit  of  speckless  black  broadcloth,  with  a  white  brocade  vest 
18 


286  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

and  stock,  and  white  kid  gloves; — his  tall,  straight  figure  and 
Wellington  profile,  standing  him  in  good  stead  for  dignity. 

As  soon  as  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  he  took  her 
hand,  and  pressing  it,  whispered, 

"  Sweet  girl,  forgive  me  this  persistence !" 

May  God  never  forgive  me  if  I  do  !"  she  fiercely  exclaimed, 
transfixing  him  with  a  flashing  glance ! 

"But  that  is  impious!  I  love  you  so  much,  Jacquelina. 
I  shall  devote  my  life  to  you !  I  will  do  anything  ou  earth  to 
make  you  happy!" 

"  Will  you,  though  ?" 

"  Only  try  me,  dearest  ?'• 

"  Give  me  up,  then  ?  Take  the  responsibility  upon  yourself, 
and  tell  uncle  that  you  will  not  marry  me !  Reject  me  at  the 
very  church!" 

"  Ah,  beautiful  one !  you  have  set  a  snare  for  me !  I  meant 
to  say  that  after  we  are  married — when  you  are  my  own,  then  I 
will  devote  my  life  to  your  happiness  1" 

"You  will?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  sure  ?" 
'    "  Certain,  my  angel !" 

"  Very  well,  I  accept  the  offering  of  your  life  in  atonement 
for  this  wrong — and  immediately  after  the  marriage  ceremony, 
I  request  that  you  go  out  and  shoot,  or  drown  yourself — it 
does  not  matter  which,  so  that  it  is  done  quickly !" 

"  Jacquelina,  that  is  very  wicked  1" 

"  Dr.  Grimshaw,  I  believe  you  expect  to  go  to  Heaven!" 

"  I  humbly  hope  so  !" 

"  Yery  well,  then  1  now  understand  why  it  is  that  I  choose 
to  be  wicked — I  don't  want  to  go  to  Heaven  with  you.  I  trust 
in  the  next  life  at  least,  a  deep  gulf  as  that  which  separates 
Lazarus  and  Dives  may  keep  us  apart!" 

"  Shall  I  never  be  able  to  win  your  heart?" 

"  Satan  shall  win  my  soul  sooner!" 

Never  lover   uttered  a  deeper  sigh  than   that  which   Dr. 


A      GRIM      MARRIAGE.  287 

Grimshaw  gave  forth  as  he  led  his  unwilling  bride  to  the  car- 
riage. The  groomsman  followed  with  the  bridesmaid.  The 
Commodore  and  Mary  L'Oiseau  accompanied  the  party  in  a 
gig,  Henrietta,  true  to  her  word,  refused  to  be  present  at  the 
marriage. 

When  the  wedding  party  arrived  at  the  chapel,  all  the  pews 
were  filled  to  suffocation  with  the  crowd  that  the  rumor  of  the 
approaching  marriage  had  drawn  together.  And  the  bridal 
party  were  the  cynosure  of  many  hundred  eyes  as  they  passed 
up  the  aisle  and  stood  before  the  altar. 

The  bride  and  bridegroom  knelt,  as  is  the  custom  in  a 
Catholic  solemnization  of  marriage.  Jacquelina  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  her  lips  firmly  compressed. 

The  ceremony  proceeded,  and  only  once,  when  the  usual 
question  was  put,  whether  any  one  there  present  knew  any 
cause  why  these  two  should  not  be  joined  in  holy  wedlock,  the 
bride  slowly  raised  her  head,  and  looked  fixedly  in  succession 
upon  each  member  of  her  party,  as  wondering  how,  in  God's 
awful  presence,  they  dared  to  meet  and  disregard  that  solemn 
adjuration.  The  ceremony  proceeded.  But  not  one  response, 
either  verbally  or  mentally,  did  Jacquelina  make.  The  priest 
passed  over  her  silence,  naturally  ascribing  it  to  bashfulness, 
and  honestly  taking  her  consent  for  granted. 

The  rites  were  finished,  the  benediction  bestowed,  and 
friends  and  acquaintances  left  their  pews,  and  crowded  around 
with  congratulations. 

Among  the  foremost  was  Thurston  Willcoxen,  whose  suave 
and  stately  courtesy,  and  graceful  bearing,  and  gracious  words, 
so  pleased  Commodore  Waugh  that,  knowing  Jacquelina  to  be 
married  and  safe,  he  invited  and  urged  the  accomplished  young 
"  Parisian,"  as  he  was  often  called,  to  return  and  partake  of 
the  Christmas  wedding  breakfast. 

"Nace!  do  you  take  your  bride  home  in  the  gig,  as  you 
will  want  her  company  to  yourself,  and  we  will  go  in  the  car- 
riage," said  the  Commodore,  good  naturedly.  In  fact,  the  old 
man  had  not  been  in  such  a  fine  humor  for  many  a  day. 


288  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

Dr.  Grimshaw,  "  nothing  loth,"  led  his  fair  bride  to  the  gig, 
handed  her  in,  and  took  the  place  beside  her. 

"  Now  then,  fairest  and  dearest,  you  are  at  last,  indeed,  my 
own  !"  he  said,  seeking  her  eyes. 

"Thank  Heaven,  I  am  not;  I  never  foreswore  myself!  1 
never  opened  my  lips,  or  formed  a  vow  in  my  head.  I  never 
promised  you  anything,"  said  Jacquelina,  turning  away. 

"  Your  love  will  be  very  hard  to  win !  but  little,  petulant 
creature,  I  shall  not  distress  you.  Come  now,  turn  around 
and  give  me  a  smile — I  will  not  even  ask  you  for  a  kiss  just 
now — but  do  not,  while  I  am  forming  resolutions  for  your 
peace,  treat  me  as  if  I  were  Satan." 

"  I  don't,"  replied  she,  with  ineffable  scorn  curling  her  beau- 
tiful lip,  "  for  I  am  sure  that  I  have  some  sort  of  respect  for 
Satan,  whereas  I  have  none  whatever  for  you.  To  marry  a 
girl  against  her  will !  Oh!  shame!1'1 

His  cheek  suddenly  blanched,  his  teeth  snapped  with  that 
spasmodic  catch  habitual  to  him  when  suddenly  enraged — he 
spoke  in  a  husky  tone. 

"  Jacquelina,  take  care !  It  would  not  be  well  or  wise  to 
make  an  enemy  of  me  !" 

"And  what  do  you  suppose  I  care  if  you  are  an  enemy  ?  Be 
an  enemy  !  Do  your  worst.  Be  as  wicked  as  you  please  !  Then, 
maybe,  I  shall  have  a  chance  to  go  to  Heaven,  for  I  don't  want 
to  go  where  you  go  when  I  die !" 

"Are  you  insane?" 

"  I  don't  know — maybe  !  but  while  I  have  some  memory  and 
understanding  left,  I  wish  to  remind  you  that  I  only  consented 
to  be  married  in  accordance  with  a  bargain  made  with  uncle, 
of  this  kind — Uncle  wished  to  leave  you  Luckenough,  but  for  a 
reason  you  doubtless  know  better  than  I  do,  he  could  not  do  so 
— he  could  only  confer  it  upon  you  through  your  wife — there- 
fore, to  endow  you  with  Luckenough,  I  consented  to  a  form  of 
marriage,  on  condition  that  uncle  should  buy  Locust  Hill,  and 
make  it  over  to  mother.  All  this  has  been  done  this  day. 
Early  in  the  spring,  Luckenough  will  be  ready  for  the  reception 


A      GRIM       MARKIAGE.  289 

of  the  family.  Auut  and  uncle,  and  yourself,  as  their  successor, 
will  remove  thither.  Mother  will  be  left  in  possession  of  her 
firm  at  Locust  Hill.  And  I  shall  remain  with  my  mother. 
And  in  the  meantime,  Dr.  Grirashaw,  you  will  please  to  leave  me 
alone!" 

"That  is  a  beautiful  arrangement!  Have  you  the  least  idea 
that  I  shall  agree  to  it  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed!  because  uncle  promised  in  your  name." 

Dr.  Grimshaw  now  stopped  the  horse  for  a  moment,  and  said, 

"  Jacquelina !  look  around  here  !  Your  uncle  made  that  pro~ 
raise  in  my  name  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  he  did!  it  was  the  only  condition  upon  which 
lie  could  obtain  my  consent!" 

"He  promised  that,  and  you  believed  him?" 

"Why  certainly  I  did,  as  I  said  before." 

"And  you  really  think  that  I  shall  consent  to  this  nominal 
marriage  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do — because  this  marriage  will  answer  your  purpose; 
it  is  formal,  legal,  and  when  uncle  gives  me  Luckcnough,  the  law 
will  give  you  a  life  possession  of  the  estate — of  which  noth- 
ing can  deprive  you — and  mother  has  the  deeds  of  Locust  Hill, 
of  which  nothing  can  deprive  her.  Thus  all  the  conditions  are 
fulfilled.  I  promised  nothing  more  either  to  uncle,  to  you,  or  to 
God  in  the  church !" 

"And  you  thought  me  base  enough  to  consent  to  such  a  mar- 
riage for  such  a  purpose !" 

"  Yes.  When  you  wished  to  marry  me,  whether  I  would  or  no, 
I  thought  you  base  enough  for  anything!" 

"Take  care,  girl!" 

"Take  care  of  what?  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  Dr.  Grimshaw  ! 
Now  that  mother  is  independent  of  the  world,  I  am  not  afraid  of 
anything!" 

"  I  am  your  husband,  however,  which  gives  me  some  power, 
did  I  please  to  use  it !" 

"You  are  not!     You  never  shall  be,"  she  said,  with  flashing 
eyes,  "  while  there  remains  an  escape  for  me  by  death !" 
24 


290  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  I  have  noticed  that  those  who  make  snch  deadly  threats 
never  put  them  in  execution.  You  have  not  courage  enough  to 
kill  yourself,  my  girl.  You  would  suffer  a  great  deal  before  you 
would  dare  to  die !  And  you  are  not  called  upon  to  suffer  at 
all.  I  wish  to  love  you,  if  you  will  let  me !" 

"  That  was  not  in  the  bond  !" 

"  We  shall  see !  But,  here  we  are  at  home,  Jacquelina.  And 
here  are  the  good  folks  all  waiting  to  greet  'the  happy  pair,'" 
he  said,  with  a  sardonic  smile,  as  he  pulled  up  the  horse,  sprang 
from  the  gig,  and  offered  his  hand  to  assist  her  to  alight. 

She  tossed  her  head  and  curled  her  lip,  and  merely  touched 
his  hand  with  the  tip  of  her  white  glove  as  she  sprang  down  and 
passed  on.  He  threw  the  reins  to  a  groom  in  attendance,  and 
followed  her.  He  overtook  her,  drew  her  reluctant  arm  in  his, 
and  led  her  into  the  house.  And  there  we  must  leave  them  for 
the  present. 


PAET     FOURTH. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

DELL-DELIGHT. 

"It  is  a  chosen  spot  of  fertile  land, 
As  if  it  had  by  nature's  cunning  hand 
Bcne  choycely  picked  out  from  all  the  rest, 
And  laid  forth  for  ensample  of  the  best." — Spenser. 

IT  should  have  been  an  enchanting  home  to  which  Thurston 
Willcoxen  returned  after  his  long  sojourn  in  Europe.  A  few 
necessary  words  must  introduce  yon  to  the  place  and  its  pro- 
prietor. The  place,  Dell-Delight,  might  once  have  deserved  its 
euphonious  and  charming  name ;  noio,  however,  its  delightful- 
ness  was  as  purely  traditional  as  the  royal  lineage  claimed  by 
its  owners.  Yet  it  was  a  perfect  piece  of  nature's  handiwork : — 

A  long,  narrow  dell,  bounded  on  three  sides  by  gently  un- 
dulating hills,  and  sloping  down  to  the  bay  on  the  fourth. 

The  mansion-house,  a  square,  massive  edifice  of  white  stone, 
with  verandas  running  before  every  story,  stood  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  dell. 

Prom  the  portico,  you  looked  down  a  long  vista,  between 
the  wooded  hills  that  ended  in  two  bold  bluffs,  between  which, 
as  through  a  portal,  you  caught  sight  of  the  flashing,  glancing 
waters  of  the  bay.  From  the  second  story  the  view  was  si  ill 
more  extensive. 

And  from  the  balustraded  walk  on  the  roof,  you  could  com- 


292  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

mand  the  whole  circumference  of  land  and  water,  from  the  cen* 
tre  to  the  horizon,  and  could  feel  that  you  really  lived  upon  the 
surface  of  the  great  earth,  in  the  immensity  of  space. 

Such  is  the  effect  in  some  positions  of  a  little  difference  in 
elevation.  And  in  different  moods  of  mind  you  might  prefer 
the  grand,  inspiring  view  from  the  top,  or  the  sweet,  secluded, 
home-like,  almost  caressing  aspect  of  the  gentle  hills,  and  the 
smile  of  the  water  caught  between  them.  To  the  confined  and 
wearied  citizens  both  had  been  delightful. 

In  its  palmy  days  the  grounds  of  Dell-Delight  had  been 
beautifully  laid  out  and  adorned,  and  carefully  kept  up. 

But  since  coming  into  the  hands  of  the  present  proprietor, 
Cloudesley  Willcoxen,  everything  not  strictly  useful  in  making 
or  in  saving  money  had  been  permitted  to  fall  to  decay,  rather 
than  preserved  at  the  expense  of  a  few  hundred  dollars. 

Yet  old  Mr.  Willcoxen  was  not  a  miser,  in  the  most  repulsive 
sense  of  the  word ;  he  was  only  an  excessively  parsimonious 
utilitarian. 

Time,  money  and  labor,  was  the  trinity  he  believed  in  and 
worshipped.  And  not  a  moment  of  time,  a  dollar  of  money,  or  a 
stroke  of  labor  that  could  be  devoted  to  the  increase  of  crops 
of  tobacco  for  exportation,  would  he  consent  to  see  "thrown 
away"  upon  ornamental  or  landscape  gardening.  Nay,  even  the 
culture  of  fruit  trees,  flowers,  and  kitchen  vegetables,  were 
neglected  as  things  of  minor  importance. 

And  Dell-Delight,  in  his  hands,  gradually  assumed  the  most 
mournful  and  inharmonious  of  all  aspects,  that  of  prematurely 
ruined  beauty. 

Mr.  "Willcoxen  was  one  of  those  whose  God  is  Mammon. 
He  had  inherited  money,  married  a  half-sister  of  Commodore 
Waugh  for  money,  and  made  money.  Year  by  year,  from  youth 
to  age,  adding  thousands  to  thousands,  acres  to  acres,  until  now, 
at  the  age  of  ninety-five,  he  was  the  master  of  incalculable  riches. 

And  all  this  wealth  was  strictly  his  own,  to  dispose  of  as  he 
pleased.  There  was  not  even  a  foot  of  his  landed  estate  entailed. 
lie  could  devise  the  whole  of  it  to  whomsoever  reason  or  ca- 
price inighl  ?plpot  H.S  hi.-  hoir. 


DELL-DELIGHT.  293 

He  had  outlived  his  wife  and  their  three  children ;  and  his 
nearest  of  kin  were  Thurston  Willcoxen,  the  son  of  his  eldest 
son  ;  Cloudesley  Mornington,  the  son  of  his  eldest  daughter,  and 
poor  Fanny  Laurie,  the  child  of  his  youngest  daughter. 

Thurston  and  Fanny  had  each  inherited  a  small  property  in- 
dependent of  their  grandfather. 

But  poor  Cloudy  had  been  left  an  orphan  in  the  worst  sense 
of  the  word — destitute  and  dependent  on  the  "cold  charity  of 
the  world,"  or  the  colder  and  bitterer  alms  of  unloving  rich 
relatives. 

The  oldest  and  nearest  kinsman  and  natural  guardian  of  the 
boys — old  Mr.  Willcoxen — had  of  course  received  them  into  his 
house  to  be  reared  and  educated ;  but  no  education  would  he 
afford  the  lads  beyond  that  dispensed  by  the  village  schoolmas- 
ter, who  could  very  well  teach  them  that  ten  dimes  make  a  dol- 
lar, and  ten  dollars  an  eagle ;  and  who  could  also  instruct  them 
how  to  write  their  own  names — for  instance,  at  the  foot  of  re- 
ceipts of  so  many  hundred  dollars  for  so  many  hogsheads  of 
tobacco;  or  to  read  other  men's  signatures,  to  wit,  upon  the 
backs  of  notes  of  hand  payable  at  such  a  time,  or  on  such  a 
day.  This  was  just  knowledge  enough,  he  said,  to  teach  the 
boys  how  to  make  and  save  money,  yet  not  enough  to  tempt 
them  to  spend  it  foolishly  in  travel,  libraries,  pictures,  statues, 
arbors,  fountains,  and  such  costly  trumpery  and  expensive  tom- 
foolery. 

To  Thurston,  who  was  his  favorite,  probably  because  he  bore 
the  family  name  and  inherited  some  independent  property,  Mr. 
Willcoxen  would,  however,  have  afforded  a  more  liberal  and 
gentlemanly  education,  could  he  have  done  so  and  at  the 
Rarne  time  decently  withheld  from  going  to  some  expense  ill 
giving  his  penniless  grandson,  Cloudy,  the  same  privilege. 
As  it  was,  he  sought  to  veil  his  parsimony  by  conservative 
principle. 

It  was  a  great  humiliation  to  the  boys  to  see  that,  while  all 
ihe  youths  of  their  own  rank  and  neighborhood  were  entered 
pensioners  at  the  local  college,  they  two  alone  were  taken  from 
24* 


294  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

the  little  day-school  to  be  put  to  agricultural  labor — a  thing 
unprecedented  in  that  locality  at  that  time. 

When  this  matter  was  brought  to  the  knowledge  of  Com- 
modore Waugh,  as  he  strode  up  and  down  his  hall,  the  in- 
dignant old  sailor  thumped  his  heavy  stick  upon  the  ground, 
thrust  forward  his  great  head,  and  swore  furiously  by  the  whole 
Pandemonial  Hierarchy  that  Ms  grandnephews  should  not  \>e 
brought  up  like  clodhoppers. 

And  straightway  he  ordered  his  carriage,  threw  himself  into 
it,  and  rode  over  to  Charlotte  Hall,  where  he  entered  the  names 
of  his  two  young  relatives  as  pensioners  at  his  own  proper  cost. 

This  done,  he  ordered  his  coachman  to  take  the  road  to  Dell- 
Delight,  where  he  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  Willcoxen. 

And  as  he  met  little  opposition  from  the  old  man,  who 
seemed  to  think  that  it  was  no  more  than  fair  that  the  boys' 
uncle  should  share  the  expense  of  educating  them — he  sought 
out  the  youths,  whom  he  found  in  the  field,  and  bade  them  leave 

the  plough,  and  go  and  prepare  themselves  to  go  to  C and 

.get  educated,  as  befitted  the  grandnephews  of  a  gentleman ! 

The  lads  were  at  that  time  far  too  simple-minded  and  too 
clannish  to  feel  their  pride  piqued  at  this  offer,  or  to  take  of- 
fence at  the  rude  manner  in  which  it  was  made.  Commodore 
Waugh  was  their  granduncle,  and  therefore  had  a  right  to  edu- 
cate them,  aud  to  be  short  with  them,  too,  if  he  pleased.  That 
was  the  way  in  which  they  also  looked  at  the  matter.  And 
very  much  delighted  and  very  grateful  they  were  for  the  opening 
for  education  thus  made  for  them. 

And  very  zealously  they  entered  upon  their  academical  stu- 
dies. They  boarded  at  the  college  and  roomed  together.  But 
their  vacations  were  spent  apart, — Thurston  spending  his  at 
Dell-Delight,  and  Cloudy  his  at  Luckenough. 

When  the  academical  course  was  completed,  Commodore 
Waugh,  as  has  been  seen,  was  at  some  pains  to  give  Cloudy  a 
fair  start  in  life,  and  for  the  first  time  condescended  to  use  his 
influence  with  "the  Department"  to  procure  a  favor  in  the 
shape  of  a  midshipman's  warrant  foi  Cloudesley  Mornington. 


DELL-DELIGHT.  295 

Iii  the  meantime,  old  Mr.  Willcoxen  was  very  gradnally 
sinking  into  the  imbecility  natural  to  his  advanced  age ;  and 
his  fascinating  grandson  was  gaining  some  ascendancy  over  his 
mind.  Year  by  year  this  influence  increased,  though  it  must 
be  admitted  that  Thurston's  conquest  over  his  grandfather's 
whims,  was  as  slow  as  that  of  the  Hollanders  in  winning  the 
land  from  the  sea. 

However,  the  old  man — now  that  Cloudy  was  provided  for 
and  off  his  hands,  lent  a  more  willing  ear  to  the  petition  of 
Thurston  to  be  permitted  to  continue  his  education  by  a  course 
of  studies  at  a  German  university,  and  afterwards  by  a  tour  of 
the  Eastern  continent. 

Thurston's  absence  was  prolonged  much  beyond  the  original 
intention,  as  has  been  related — he  spent  two  years  at  the  uni- 
versity, two  in  travel,  and  nearly  two  in  the  city  of  Paris. 

His  grandfather  would  certainly  never  have  consented  to  this 
prolonged  absence,  had  it  been  at  his  own  cost ;  but  the  ex- 
penses were  met  by  advances  upon  Thurston's  own  small  pa 
trimony. 

And  in  fact,  when  at  last  the  young  gentleman  returned  to 
his  native  country,  it  was  because  his  property  was  nearly  ex- 
hausted, and  his  remittances  were  small,  few,  and  far  between, 
grudgingly  sent,  and  about  to  be  stopped.  Therefore  nearly 
penniless,  but  perfectly  free  from  the  smallest  debt  or  degrada- 
tion— elegant,  accomplished,  fastidious — yet  truthful,  generous, 
gallant  and  aspiring,  Thurston  left  the  elegant  saloon  and  ex- 
citing scenes  of  Paris,  for  the  comparative  dullness  and  dreari- 
ness of  his  native  place  and  his  grandfather's  house. 

He  had  reached  his  legal  majority  just  before  leaving  Paris. 
And  soon  after  his  arrival  at  home,  he  was  appointed  trustee 
of  poor  Fanny  Laurie's  property. 

His  first  act  was  to  visit  Fanny  in  the  distant  asylum  in 
which  she  was  confined,  and  ascertain  her  real  condition.  And 
naving  heard  her  pronounced  incurable,  though  perfectly  harm- 
less, he  determined  to  release  her  from  the  confinement  of  the 
asylum,  and  to  bring  her  home  to  her  native  county,  where 


296  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

among  the  woods  and  hills  and  streams,  she  might  find  at  once 
that  freedom,  space  and  solitude  so  desired  by  the  heart-sick 
or  brain-sick,  and  where  also  his  own  care  might  avail  her. 

Old  Mr.  Willcoxen,  far  from  offering  opposition  to  this  plan, 
actually  favored  it — though  from  the  less  worthy  motive  of 
economy.  What  was  the  use  of  spending  money  to  pay  her 
board,  and  nursing,  and  medical  attendance,  in  the  asylum, 
when  she  might  be  boarded  and  nursed  and  doctored  so  much 
cheaper  at  home  ?  For  the  old  man  confidently  looked  forward 
to  the  time  when  the  poor,  fragile,  failing  creature  would  sink 
into  the  grave,  and  Thurston  would  become  her  heir.  And  he 
calculated  that  every  dollar  they  could  save  of  her  income, 
would  be  so  much  added  to  the  inheritance  when  Tliurstou 
should  come  into  it. 

Very  soon  after  Thurston's  return  home,  his  grandfather 
gave  him  to  understand  the  conditions  upon  which  he  intended 
to  make  him  his  heir — they  were  two  in  number — viz.,  first, 
that  Thurston  should  never  leave  him  again  while  he  lived — 
and  secondly,  that  he  should  never  marry  without  his  consent. 
"  For  I  don't  wish  to  be  left  alone  in  my  old  age,  my  de.ar  boy 
— nor  do  I  wish  to  see  you  throw  yourself  away  upon  any  girl 
whose  fortune  is  less  than  the  estate  I  intend  to  bequeath  entire 
to  yourself." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MARIAN,       THE       INSPIRER. 

"  Oh !  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  her  neighbor, 
How  will  she  love  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  killed  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her! — when  bosom,  brain  and  heart, 
Those  sovereign  thrones,  arc  all  supplied  and  filled— 
Her  sweet  perfections — wich  but  one  self- king." — S/iakspeare. 

IT  was  not  fortunate  for  old  Mr.  Willcoxen's  plans,  thai  his 
grandson  should  have  met  Marian  Mayfield.  For,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Thurston's  first  meeting  with  the  charming  girl,  when  he 
turned  his  horse's  head  from  the  arched  gateway  of  Old  Field 
Cottage  and  galloped  off,  "a  haunting  shape  and  image  gay" 
attended  him. 

It  was  that  of  beautiful  Marian,  with  her  blooming  face  and 
sunny  hair,  and  rounded  roseate  neck  and  bosom  and  arms,  all 
softly,  delicately  flushed  with  the  pure  glow  of  rich,  luxuriant 
vitality,  as  she  stood  in  the  sunlight,  under  the  arch  of  azure 
morning-glories,  with  her  graceful  arms  raised  in  the  act  of 
binding  up  the  vines. 

That  was  the  enchanting  picture !  And  no  slightest  beauty 
of  it  was  lost  or  dimmed  in  memory — no  glisten  of  the  sun  rays 
in  the  ripples  of  her  golden  bronze  hair ;  no  shadow  of  the  eye- 
lashes on  her  blushing  cheeks  ;  no  curve  of  the  fresh  ripe  lips ; 
no  rise  and  fall  of  the  rounded,  glowing  bosom;  no  motion  of 
the  rosy  arms,  that  was  not  like  a  breathing  life  before  him. 

At  first  this  "  image  fair"  was  almost  unthought  of — he  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  haunting  presence,  or  the  life  and  light 
it  gradually  diffused  through  his  whole  being.  And  when  the 
revelation  dawned  upon  his  intellect,  he  smiled  to  himself,  and 
wondered  if,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  falling  in  love ;  and  then 
ae  grew  grave,  and  tried  to  banish  the  dangerous  thought.  But 

(297) 


298  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

when,  day  after  day,  amid  all  the  business  and  the  pleasures  ol 
his  life,  the  "shape"  still  pursued  him,  instead  of  getting  angry 
with  it  or  gro \ving  weary  of  it,  he  opened  his  heart  and  took  it 
in,  and  made  it  at  home,  and  set  it  upon  a  throne,  where  it 
reigned  supreme,  diffusing  delight  over  all  his  nature.  But 
soon,  too  soon,  this  bosom's  sovereign  became  the  despot,  and 
Btung,  goaded  and  urged  him  to  see  again  its  living,  breathing, 
glowing,  most  beautiful  original !  To  seek  her  ? — for  what  ? 
He  did  not  even  try  to  answer  the  question. 

Thus  passed  one  week. 

And  then,  had  he  been  disposed  to  forget  the  beautiful  girl, 
he  could  not  have  done  so.  For  everywhere  where  the  busi- 
ness of  his  grandfather  took  him,  around  among  the  neighbor- 
ing planters,  to  the  villages  of  B or  of  C ,  everywhere 

he  heard  of  Marian,  and  frequently  he  saw  her,  though  at  a 
distance,  or  under  circumstances  that  made  it  impossible  for 
him,  without  rudeness,  to  address  her.  He  both  saw  and  heard 
of  her  in  scenes  and  society  where  he  could  hardly  have  ex- 
pected to  find  a  young  girl  of  her  insignificant  position. 

He  made  some  very  discreet  and  seemingly  indifferent  little 
inquiries  about  her,  and  adroitly  led  on  others  to  speak  of  her 
And  from  all  he  heard  of  her  goodness,  her  disinterestedness, 
and  her  young  wisdom  blended  with  sweet  and  gracious  joy- 
ousness. 

And,  in  truth,  it  is  seldom  that  a  creature  so  nearly  faultless 
appears,  or  that  in  a  world  so  given  to  envy  and  detraction  ae 
this,  a  young  girl  so  beautiful  and  gifted  as  Marian  wins  such 
universal  suffrages  in  her  favor.  The  reasons  might  have  been 
partly  these :  A  stranger  and  a  foreigner,  without  the  advan- 
tages of  wealth,  family,  or  social  position,  in  the  most  conser- 
vative and  exclusive  of  all  neighborhoods,  her  personal  excel- 
lencies, without  worldly  distinctions,  could  not  stand  in  the  way 
of  any  one.  She  lived  a  very  cheerful,  busy,  beneficent,  and 
unexacting  life,  seldom  leaving  her  little  home  except  at  the  call 
of  duty  or  benevolence.  Truly  those  errands  often  drew  her 
forth,  for  Marian  was  eminently  social  and  sympathetic.  Su« 


MARIAN,      THE      INSPIRES,.  299 

was  the  friend  of  everybody.  Her  sweetest  earthly  pleasure 
was  the  pure  one  of  doing  good,  relieving  pain,  supplying 
want,  comforting  affliction,  conferring  benefits,  and  her  highest 
earthly  joy,  approaching  that  of  Heaven,  was — the  delight  of 
delighting  others  !  Both  queen  and  priestess  she  should  have 
been,  by  right  of  these  instincts  and  capacities.  These  consti- 
tuted her  happiness,  these  gave  her  power  and  influence  far 
beyond  the  sphere  of  her  rank  and  sex  and  circumstances,  and 
these,  alas  !  finally  contributed  to  work  her  lasting,  bitter  woe  I 

And  how  much  of  her  young  life,  her  spirit's  strength,  she 
contrived  to  infuse  into  the  apathetic  community  around  her. 

There  were  several  notable  improvements  commenced  within 
the  last  few  years  in  the  two  villages  and  in  the  county.  These 
were  day-schools  for  the  children  of  the  poor,  and  night-schools 
for  young  men  otherwise  employed  during  the  day.  There 
were  Sunday-schools.  There  were  societies  for  relieving  and 
improving  the  condition  of  the  poor.  And,  finally,  there  was 
an  annual  fair  for  stimulating  the  enterprize  and  emulation  of 
fanners  and  housewives,  and  for  rewarding  excellence  in  agri- 
culture, floriculture,  gardening,  and  domestic  economy  in  all  its 
branches. 

And  when  Thurston  learned  the  origin  and  history  of  these 
new  agents  of  progress  that  were  gradually  quickening  the  old, 
torpid  community  into  life,  and  preparing  its  perfect  resurrec- 
tion from  the  dead,  he  discovered  also  that  the  beautiful  and 
gifted  Marian  had  been  the  Inspirer ! 

Strange,  and  passing  strange,  that  a  young  girl,  without  for- 
tune, without  family,  without  social  distinction  of  any  sort 
should,  by  the  mere  strength  of  heart  and  brain,  the  faculty  of 
much  loving  and  great  thinking,  have  attained  such  a  spell  over 
hearts  and  minds,  a  power  that  she  used,  as  she  used  all  her 
advantages,  for  the  good  of  humanity. 

And  Thurston  marvelled  that  one  of  such  humble  fortunes 
should  have  gained  such  an  influence,  and  moved  in  such  en- 
tcrprizes. 

"  Humble  fortunes  1"    Had  Marian  been  a  "crowned  queen'- 


300  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

she  could  not  have  felt  or  revealed  a  more  natural,  serene  and 
unobtrusive  consciousness  of  personal  power — a  more  habitual 
self-possession,  self-reliance,  and  self-respect ;  and  all  this  "self" 
was  without  selfishness,  as  every,  act  of  her  life  proved,  and  this 
air  and  manner  inspired  perfect  faith  in  those  whom  she  wished 
to  influence. 

When  Thurston  heard  her  spoken  of,  it  was  not  with  the 
mere  admiration  bestowed  upon  a  beautiful  girl,  but  with  a  cer- 
tain esteem,  deference,  or  enthusiastic  encomium,  according  to 
the  age  or  temperament  of  the  speakers. 

She  was  scarcely  twenty  years  of  age,  yet  in  the  last  three  or 
four  years  had  refused  more  eligible  offers  of  marriage  than  any 
heiress  in  the  county.  Far  the  least  notable  among  the  rejected 
being  Doctor  Weismann,  who,  unknown  to  Miss  Nancy,  who 
kept  him  tied  to  her  apron  string,  had  made  the  offer  of  his 
heart,  hand,  and  professional  prospects  to  the  portionless  girl. 
And  the  most  important  among  them  was  the  judge  of  the 
county  court,  a  grave,  handsome  man  of  middle  age  and  con- 
siderable property,  who  sought  to  win  the  beautiful  Marian 
through  what  he  7/n's-judged  to  be  her  ruling' passions,  the  love 
of  power,  and  the  power  of  patronage.  He  urged  upon  her  the 
argument  of  how  widely  the  sphere  of  her  influence  and  useful- 
ness would  be  increased,  when  she  should  become  the  wife  of  a 
man  of  property  and  extensive  connections.  But, 

"No, "was  Marian's  laughing  rejoinder;  "I  have  observed 
that  in  this  country,  when  a  woman  becomes  the  sole  property 
ot  one  man,  she  loses  her  influence  with  all  the  rest." 

"  Then,"  said  the  judge,  "for  the  sake  of  general  usefulness, 
you  purpose  to  live  a  single  life." 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  so,"  answered  Marian,  "thuigh  I  have 
taken  no  vows." 

Sound  virgin  heart  was  hers,  that  had  never  been  trifled  with, 
never  breathed  upon  by  man's  love — all  declarations  and  pro- 
testations of  the  sort  reached  no  farther  than  her  ear. 

And  Thurston  knew  that  this  rich,  large  heart,  though  often 
wooed,  was  still  unwon.  Did  the  dream  of  attempting  its  con- 


MARIAN,      THE      INSPIRES.  301 

quest  enter  his  mind  ?  Scarcely — certainly  not,  to  be  willingly 
entertained  there  ;  for  however  he  might  admire  the  enchanting 
girl,  he  durst  not  marry  her.  Any  other  young  man  in  the 
county,  might  now,  without  much  opposition  from  his  friends, 
have  won,  if  he  could,  the  hand  of  Marian;  but  not  the  heir 
apparently  of  gold-worshiping  old  Willcoxen.  Yet  Thurston 
tens  glad  to  know  that  her  heart  was  untouched,  and  he  longed 
to  see  once  more  this  lovely  nonpareil. 

The  opportunity  was  not  long  in  presenting  itself. 

Marian  was  a  regular  attendant  of  the  Protestant  church  at 
Benedict,  where,  before  the  morning  service,  she  taught  in  the 
Sunday  school — and  before  the  afternoon  service,  she  received 
a  class  of  colored  children. 

And  Thurston,  who  had  been  a  very  careless  and  desultory 
attendant,  sometimes  upon  the  Catholic  chapel,  sometimes  upou 
the  Protestant  church,  now  became  a  very  regular  frequenter 
of  the  latter  place  of  worship  ;  the  object  of  his  worship  being 
— not  the  Creator,  but  the  creature  !  whom,  if  he  missed  from 
her  accustomed  seat,  the  singing,  and  praying,  and  preaching 
for  him  lost  all  of  its  meaning,  power  and  spirituality  !  In  the 
church-yard  he  sometimes  tried  to  catch  her  eye  and  bow  to 
her — but  was  always  completely  baffled  in  his  aspirations  after 
a  nearer  communion.  She  was  always  attended  from  the 
church,  and  assisted  into  her  saddle  by  Judge  Provost,  Colonel 
Thornton,  or  some  other  "  potent,  grave  and  reverend  seig- 
niors," who  "  hedged  her  about  with  a  divinity"  that  it  was  im- 
possible, without  rudeness  and  intrusion,  to  break  through. 
The  more  he  was  baffled  and  perplexed,  the  more  eager  be- 
came his  desire  to  cultivate  her  acquaintance.  Had  his  course 
been  clear  to  woo  her  for  his  wife — it  would  have  been  easy  to 
ask  permission  of  Edith  to  visit  her  at  her  house ;  but  such 
was  not  the  case — and  Thurston,  tampering  with  his  own  inte- 
grity of  purpose,  rather  wished  that  this  much  coveted  acquaint- 
ance should  be  incidental,  and  their  interviews  seem  acci- 
dental, so  that  he  should  not  commit  himself,  or  in  any  wuy 
load  her  to  form  expectations  which  he  had  no  surety  of  belli-- 
19 


802  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

able  to  meet.  How  long  this  cool  and  cautious  foresight  migh. 
avail  him,  if  once  he  were  brought  in  close  companionship  with 
Marian,  remains  to  be  seen.  It  happened  one  Sunday  after- 
noon in  October,  that  he  saw  Marian  take  leave  of  her  vener- 
able escort,  Colonel  Thornton,  at  the  church-yard  gate,  anc1 
gayly  and  alone  turn  into  the  forest  road  that  led  to  her  own 
home.  He  immediately  threw  himself  into  his  saddle  and  followed 
her,  with  the  assumed  air  of  an  indifferent  gentleman  pursuing 
his  own  path.  He  overtook  her  near  one  of  those  gates  that 
frequently  intersect  the  road.  Bowing,  he  passed  her,  opened 
the  gate  and  held  it  open  for  her  passage.  Marian  smiled,  and 
nodded  with  a  pleasant, 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Willcoxen,"  as  she  went  through. 

Thurston  closed  the  gate  and  rode  on  after  her. 

"  This  is  glorious  weather,  Miss  Mayfield." 

"  Glorious,  indeed  !"  replied  Marian,  turning  her  eyes  from 
the  gorgeous  coloring  of  the  autumn  woods  to  the  western  sky, 
"  where  the  rich  sunset  burned." 

"  And  the  country,  too,  is  perfectly  beautiful  at  this  season. 
I  never  could  sympathize  with  the  poets  who  call  autumnal 
days  'the  melancholy  days — the  saddest  of  the  year.'" 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Marian  ;  "for  to  me,  autumn,  with  its  reful- 
gent skies  and  gorgeous  woods  and  rich  harvest  and  its  pros- 
pect of  Christmas  cheer  and  wintry  repose  has  ever  seemed  a 
gay  and  festive  season.  The  year's  great  work  is  done,  the 
harvest  is  gathered,  enjoyment  is  present,  and  repose  at  hand." 

"In  the  world  of  society,"  said  Thurston,  "it  is  in  the  even- 
ing, after  the  labor  or  the  business  of  the  day  is  over,  that  the 
gayest  scenes  of  festivity  occur,  just  preceding  the  repose  of 
sleep.  So  I  receive  your  thought  of  the  autumn — the  evening 
of  the  year,  preceding  the  rest  of  winter.  Nature's  year's 
work  is  done — she  puts  on  her  most  gorgeous  robes,  and  holds 
a  festival  before  she  sinks  to  her  winter's  sleep." 

Marian  smiled  brightly  upon  him. 

"  Yes  !  my  meaning,  I  believe,  only  more  pointedly  expressed." 

That  smile  !  that  smile  !     It  lightened  through  all  his  nature1 


MARIAN,      THE      INSPIREB.  303 

with  electric,  life-giving,  spirit-realizing  power — elevating  and 
inspiring  his  whole  being — his  face,  too,  was  rauiant  with  life 
as  he  answered  the  maiden's  smile. 

But  something  in  his  eyes  caused  Marian's  glances  to  fall, 
and  the  rosy  clouds  to  roll  up  over  her  cheeks  and  brow. 

Then  Tlmrston  governed  his  countenance — let  no  ardent  or 
admiring  glance  escape,  and  when  he  spoke  again,  his  manner 
and  words  were  more  deferential. 

"  We  spoke  of  the  world  of  nature,  Miss  Mayfield,  but  how 
is  it  with  the  world  of  man  ?  To  many,  nay,  to  most  of  the 
human  race,  autumn  is  the  herald  of  a  season,  not  of  festivity 
and  repose,  but  of  continued  labor,  and  increased  want  and 
privation  and  suffering," 

"  That  is  because  society  is  not  in  harmony  with  nature — • 
man  has  wandered  as  far  from  nature  as  from  God,"  said 
Marian. 

"  And  as  much  needs  a  Saviour  to  lead  him  back  to  the  one 
as  to  the  other,"  replied  Thurston. 

"  You  know  that — you  feel  it,"  said  Marian,  turning  upon 
him  one  of  her  soul-thrilling  glances. 

Thurston  trembled  with  delicious  pleasure  through  all  his 
frame,  but  guarding  his  eyes,  lest  again  they  should  frighten 
off  her  inspiring  glances,  he  answered,  fervently, 

"  I  know  and  feel  it  most  profoundly." 

And  Thurston  thought  he  spoke  the  very  truth,  though  in 
sober  fact  he  had  never  thought  or  felt  anything  about  the  sub- 
ject until  now  that  Marian,  his  inspirer,  poured  her  life-giving 
spirit  into  his  soul. 

She  spoke  again,  earnestly,  ardently. 

"  You  know  and  feel  it  most  profoundly! — That  deep  know- 
ledge and  that  deep  feeling,  is  the  chrism  oil  that  has  anointed 
you  a  messenger  and  a  laborer  in  the  cause  of  humanity. 
'  Called  and  chosen,'  be  thou  also  faithful.  There  are  many  in- 
spired, many  anointed,  but  fe\v  are  faithful!" 

"  Thou,  then,  art  the  high  priestess  that  hast  poured  the  con- 
secrated oil  on  my  head.  1  will  be  faithful  1" 


804  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

He  spoke  with  such  sudden  enthusiasm,  such  abandon,  that 
it  had  the  effect  of  bringing  Marian  back  to  the  moderation 
and  retenue  of  her  usual  manner.  He  saw  it  in  the  changed 
expression  of  her  countenance — and  what  light  or  shade  of  feel- 
ing passed  over  that  beautiful  face  unmarked  of  him  ?  Wheu 
he  spoke  again  it  was  composedly. 

"  You  speak  as  the  preachers  and  teachers  preach  and  teach 
— in  general  terms  ;  be  explicit ;  what  would  you  have  me  to 
do,  Miss  Mayfield  ?  Only  indicate  my  work,  and  tell  me  ho\\* 
to  set  about  the  accomplishment  of  it,  and  never  knight  served 
liege  lady  as  I  will  serve  you  !" 

Marian  smiled. 

"  Nay,  women  can  more  readily  set  tasks  to  men,  than  in- 
struct them  in  the  execution  of  the  work.  Yet,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  can  at  least  point  out  the  scene  of  your  labors — " 

"  And  that  is — " 

"Here!" 

"  Here !" 

"  Aye,  here,  in  your  native  place.  Xo  spot  needs  you  so 
much  as  this,  to  which  you  were  given." 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Mayfield,"  he  said,  smiling  in  his  turn, 
"but  this  place  is  so  effete,  so  dead,  so  hopeless  !" 

"Do  you  find  it  so?  Why  should  that  be?  The  earth 
here,  as  elsewhere,  looks  to-day  as  young,  as  fresh,  and  as 
vigorous  as  if  just  turned  from  the  hand  of  its  Creator — finished, 
perfect.  And,  in  truth,  every  day  js  a  new  creation  !" 

"  Yes !  in  the  world  of  nature — thon  glorious  child  of  nature  ! 
but  in  the  world  of  man,  as  I  asked  before,  how  is  it  in  the 
world  of  man  ?  groveling,  weariness,  sloth,  torpor!  Hopeless 
materials  to  work  upon  !" 

"  Yet,  in  the  world  of  man,  here,  as  elsewhere,  there  is  an 
ever-springing  fountain  of  new  life  and  promise,  and  an  ever 
new  day  of  creation — it  is  in  childhood  and  youth,  to  whom 
the  earth  is  all  alive  as  upon  the  morning  of  the  divine  birth, 
who  are  ever  susceptible  to  new  inspirations  and  new  truths. 
Children,  at  least,  are  alive  and  impressible,  and  the  children 


MARIAN,       THE      INSPIRE  R  .  305 

this  generation,  remember,  will  be  the  law-givers  of  the 
next.  I  would  have  all  reformers  and  philanthropists,  while 
preaching  to  gi'own  people,  not  to  forget  the  children,  but  to 
bring  their  truths  to  bear  upon  them  as  the  seed  of  promise." 

Marian  ceased,  and  Thurstoi:  remained  in  thought  for  a  few 
minutes;  then  he  said, 

"  I  confess  that,  when  I  have  dreamed  of  a  useful  and  honor- 
able careor,  the  scene  of  my  visions  has  not  ever  been  this 
obscure  rounty." 

"  You  dreamed,  perhaps,  of  acting  in  some  of  the  world's 
great  thoroughfares  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  why  ?  Our  Divine  Master  commenced  his  labors,  not 
among  the  great  nations  of  the  earth,  but  in  His  birth-place,  an 
obscure  province.  The  Great  Messiah  appeared  not  at  Rome 
— at  that  day  the  great  nucleus  of  the  world's  life  and  business 
— but  in  remote,  effete,  deadened  Galilee.  His  humble  fol- 
lower of  to-day  need  not  go  to  Washington,  or  New-York,  to 
London,  or  Paris,  or  upon  any  of  the  world's  great  platforms. 
Let  him  light  his  lamp  in  his  native  place — for  the  people 
among  whom  he  was  born — to  whom  he  was  sent — and,  if  the 
light  be  the  true  light,  its  rays  will  spread — never  doubt  it." 

Thurston  smiled  again  ;  a  curious,  doubtful  sort  of  smile, 
which,  had  Marian  seen  it,  would  not  have  inspired  her  with 
confidence. 

"So,"  he  said,  "  the  scene  of  my  labor  being  fixed,  now  for 
the  manner  of  it." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Marian,  laughing,  and  parodying  the  words  of 
Portia,  '  I  could  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be 
done,  than  show  one  of  the  twenty  how  to  follow  my  own  teach- 
ing.' But,  first,  I  think  you  should  endeavor  to  purify  and 
elevate  the  tone  of  thought  and  feeling  in  the  community." 

"But  how?" 

"  Oh  !  in  this  way  :  men  here,  as  elsewhere,  have  brains  and 
hearts,  intelligence  and  loves,  apathetic  as  they  are.  Seek  to 
stimulate  and  quicken  those  dormant  faculties — act  npon  their 


306  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

intellects  and  their  affections — act  upon  their  passions,  if  neces- 
sary, for  even  they  were  given  for  good  purposes,  though  so 
often  turned  to  evil  ones." 

"  Again — how  ?" 

"  How  ?  Oh!  you  must  make  yourself  a  position  from  which 
to  influence  them,  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  advise  you  how  • 
but  you  will  find  a  way!  As — were  /a  man,  /should  !" 

"  Being  a  woman,  you  have  done  wonders." 

"  For  a  woman,"  said  Marian,  with  a  glance  full  of  archness 
and  merriment. 

"  No,  no,  for  any  one,  man  or  woman.  But  your  method, 
Marian  ?  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Mayfield,"  he  added,  with  a 
blush  of  ingenuous  embarrassment. 

"Nay,  now,"  said  the  frank  girl,  "do  call  me  Marian  if  that 
name  springs  more  readily  to  your  lips  than  the  other.  Almost 
all  persons  call  me  Marian,  and  I  like  it." 

A  rush  of  pleasure  thrilled  all  through  his  veins — he  gave 
her  words  a  meaning  and  a  value  for  himself,  that  they  did  not 
certainly  possess  ;  he  forgot  that  the  grace  extended  to  him  was 
extended  to  all — nay,  that  she  had  even  said  as  much  in  the 
very  words  that  gave  it.  He  answered, 

"  And  if  I  do,  fairest  Marian,  shall  I  too,  hear  my  own  Chris- 
tian name  in  music  from  your  lips  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  beautiful  girl,  laughing  and 
blushing,  "if  it  ever  comes  naturally,  perhaps,  certainly  not 
now.  Why,  the  venerable  Colonel  Thornton  calls  me  '  Marian,' 
but  it  never  comes  to  me  to  call  him  'John  !'  " 

Thurston's  rapture  suddenly  fell  to  zero.  He  rode  on  ir. 
silence. 

"  Come,"  said  Marian,  gayly,  "let  us  return  to  what  we  were 
talking  of — you  were  inquiring — " 

"  What  your  method — your  system  of  action  has  been,  in 
gaining  and  wielding  an  influence  that  has  resulted  in  so  much 
good.  Miss  Mayfield  ?"  He  would  not  now  call  her  "  Marian,'' 
he  would  noc  accept  that  privilege  when  shared  by  Colonel 
Thornton,  or  any  other  man  alive. 


MARIAN,      THE      INSPIRE  R.  307 

"  My  method — my  system  ?  I  had  none,'1'1  said  Marian,  "but, 
Vac  history  of  what  has  been  done  is  briefly  this  :  The  evils  of 
your  community  are  perhaps  much  more  apparent  in  a  stranger, 
especially  to  a  European  coming  here  with  exaggerated  ideas 
of  what  the  '  model  republic '  is,  or  ought  to  be,  than  to  a 
native  resident.  And,  therefore,  I  confess  that  I  was  astonished; 
shocked,  to  find  in  any  part  of  democratic  America,  a  preva- 
lence and  tyranny  of  rank  so  absolute  and  offensive  as  that 
which  exists  here — greater,  I  take  it  upon  me  to  say,  than  can 
l>e  found  in  any  part  of  England.  No  less  was  I  grieved  and 
disappointed  to  find  a  class  of  poor  white  people,  living  in  a 
semi-barbarous  state,  in  mean  and  miserable  huts,  no  better 
than  wigwams,  supporting  themselves  by  hunting,  fishing,  thiev- 
ing, and  working  a  little  in  harvest  time  ;  so  ignorant  as  to  be 
unable  to  read,  and  so  degraded  as  to  be  despised  and  con- 
temned even  by  the  negro  slaves.  Their  condition  touched  my 
heart,  and  weighed  upon  my  mind.  I  spoke  of  it — when,  and 
where,  and  how,  and  to  whom,  the  Spirit  dictated.  I  obeyed 
my  inspirations,  nothing  more!  My  daily  life  brought  me  into 
close  and  favorable  relations  with  the  country  people.  I  often, 
when  I  least  expected  it,  found  myself  in  the  position  of  nurse, 
friend,  sympathiser,  and  even  counsellor.  What  I  had  to  say 
was  spoken  in  homes  where  I  had  been  useful,  and  so  earned  a 
hearing,  or  by  the  sick  beds  of  convalescents,  whom  I  had 
nursed  back  to  life.  And  so,  my  words  were  listened  to  with 
great  kindness  and  indulgence,  and,  after  much  perseverance  011 
ray  part,  with  effect." 

"  I  do  not  wonder,  Miss  Mayfield,  at  your  power  over  minds 
and  hearts." 

They  had  now  reached  the  verge  of  the  forest,  and  came  out 
into  the  open  country  that  lay  between  that  and  the  coast. 

And  here  their  roads  naturally  separated — Old  Field  Cottage 
standing  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up,  and  Dell-Delight  four  or 
five  miles  down  the  bay. 

And  here  Marian  gayly  bade  him  good  evening,  and  turned 
her  horse's  head 


308  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Thurston  hesitated — he  wished  to  ask  permission  to  attend 
her  home,  but  durst  not ;  he  returned  her  parting  salutation 
with  a  smile  and  a  deep  bow,  and  passed  on  his  way. 

Marian,  in  a  few  minutes,  readied  Old  Field  Cottage,  where 
Airs.  Shields  and  Miriam  were  waiting  tea,  and  they  noticed  the 
new  life  in  Marian's  countenance,  that  flushed  her  cheeks  with 
a  higher  crimson,  and  seemed  to  fill  out  and  lift  with  light  her 
wide  and  snowy  eyelids. 

And  an  hour's  slow  ride  brought  Thurston  to  Dell-Delight. 
That  evening  he  had  little  patience  with  his  miserly  grand- 
father's "  poor  Richard"  prosing,  or  with  hapless  Fanny's 
snatches  of  song  and  poesy — until, 

"  You're  in  love  !"  said  the  latter,  suddenly  ceasing  her  play, 
and  coming  and  peering  in  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  blushing  with  consciousness,  "  I  am  in  love 
with  you,  belle  Fannie,  '  will  you  live  with  me  and  be  my  love  ?' " 

"  Nay,"  said  the  maniac,  breaking  into  song — 

"  My  heart  is  in  the  dark  grave, 

My  heart  is  not  he.re— 
My  heart  is  in  the  damp  grave, 
Interred  with  my  dear!" 

He  wished  to  escape ;  to  get  away  from  all  company,  to  lay 
his  head  upon  his  pillow  in  the  darkness  of  his  own  chamber, 
where,  with  the  world  shut  out,  he  might  live  over  again  in 
memory,  the  scene  just  passed  with  Marian;  and  in  iiuagim'.- 
tion,  many,  many  charming  scenes  of  their  future  lives.  I  am 
afraid  that  night  not  many  thoughts  were  given  to  the  cause  of 
humanity  at  large.  A  restless,  passion-troubled,  half  blissful, 
half  painful  night  he  passed.  Her  eyes  !  her  smile !  every  time 
they  rose  before  his  mind's  eye,  thrilled  him  as  intensely  as  at 
first. 

He  arose  on  Monday  morning  unrefreshed,  devising  ways  and 
means  by  which  he  might  see  Marian  during  the  day.  No  bet- 
ter way  occurred  to  him,  than  to  go  into  the  woods,  bag  a  brace 
of  partridges  or  rabbits,  carry  them  past  Old  Field  Cottage 


MARIAN,      THE      INSPIRER.  309 

and  drop  in,  impromptu-like,  and  make  a  present  of  the  game  to 
Edith,  with  the  chance  of  being  invited  to  breakfast. 

Forthwith  he  put  this  plan  in  execution. 

But  though  he  stayed  and  stayed — and  breakfast  was  pre- 
pared and  eaten,  and  the  service  cleared  away — and  his  excuse 
for  staying  ceased,  and  his  continued  presence  seemed  like  intru- 
sion, still  the  object  of  his  visit  was  not  obtained — beautiful 
Marian  did  not  appear. 

'  I  hope  Miss  Mayfield  is  quite  well,"  he  said,  at  last,  as  re- 
lucvantly  he  arose  to  go. 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  well,  Marian  is  never  otherwise,  but  she  went 
last  night  to  sit  up  with  a  sick  neighbor,  and  I  scarcely  expect 
to  see  her  home  to-day." 

This  was  a' heart-sickening  disappointment — especially  as  he 
felt  that  this  game  manoeuvre  could  not  be  resorted  to  again — 
its  air  of  incidentality  would  thus  be  lost.  And  he  knew  that 
Old  Field  Cottage  was  a  place  at  once  so  well  known,  and  so 
little  frequented,  that  his  visits  there,  upon  any  pretext,  would, 
in  that  gossipping  neighborhood,  occasion  remarks  and  specu- 
lations that  would  assuredly  be  carried  to  the  knowledge  of  iiis 
jealous,  watchful,  argus-eyed  grandfather,  and  be  likely— not 
only  to  interfere  with  even  his  accidental  interviews  with  the 
beautiful,  penniless  girl,  but  also  very  seriously  with  his  future 
prospects. 

He  bade  adieu  to  Edith,  with  an  anxious  heart  and  a  busy 
brain,  all  alive  with  eagerness  to  contrive  accidental  meetings 
with  Marian. 

But  though  fertile  in  expedients,  he  was  not  fortunate  in  re- 
sults. 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  frequented  B and  C -,  and  the 

roads  between  those  villages  and  Old  Field  Cottage.  He 
never,  by  any  chance,  caught  sight  of  Marian. 

And  so,  in  fruitless  and  disheartening  endeavor,  the  week 
passed  away. 

However  he  was  reasonably  sure  of  seeing  her  at  church,  on 
Sunday ;  and  so,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  hailed  the  ap- 
proaching Sabbath  with  joy  I 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


"  All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights., 

WhateTur  stir  this  mortal  frame 
Arc  but  the  ministers  of  love, 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame." — Coleridge. 

THURSTON  WII.LCOXEN'S  usual  road  from  Dell-Delight  to  the 
village  church,  brought  him  nowhere  within  miles  of  Marian 
May  field's  forest  path  from  Old  Field  Cottage  to  the  same 
point. 

But  upon  this  particular  Sunday,  Thurston  chose  to  make  an 
early  start  from  home,  and  ride  full  five  miles  up  the  shore  to 
the  cross  roads,  on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  where  he  had  parted 
from  Marian  the  Sabbath  previous. 

He  reached  the  spot  while  the  early  autumnal  frost  yet 
embossed  the  earth  and  the  trees  with  pearls — and  the  latest 
lingering  summer  birds  twittered  their  morning  carols. 

It  was  but  nine  o'clock  when  he  entered  the  forest — it  was 
but  an  hour's  ride  to  church,  and  he  fully  believed  himself  to 
be  a  half  or  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  advance  of  the  young 
girl.  Therefore  he  rode  slowly  up  and  down  the  forest  path, 
frequently  turning  upon  his  course,  until  about  thirty  minutes 
had  passed.  Then  he  began  to  grow  vigilant  in  eye  and  ear  to 
catch  the  sight  or  sound  of  her  distant  approach.  But  nothing 
was  heard  save  the  twitter  of  the  robins,  the  gurgle  of  low 
rills,  the  rustle  of  dried  leaves  driven  by  the  breeze,  or  the  fall 
of  a  solitary  nut  as  it  dropped  to  the  ground,  besides  the  lonely 
step  of  his  own  steed.  And  he  might  have  paced  to  and  fro  for 
a  whole  day,  for  many  days,  and  heard  no  other  sound  but  these, 
or  the  wind  and  the  rain — so  lonely  was  this  forest  walk. 
Three  quarters  of  an  hour  passed,  and  he  began  to  grow  very 
impatient,  and  wonde^  v.t  her  non-appearance,  and  the 
(310) 


LOVE.  311 

the  delayed  appearing,  the  surer  he  grew  of  seeing  her  the  very 
next  instant — it  must  be  so,  for  Marian  was  never  absent  from 
church,  and  never  late  in  attendance,  and  she  never  went  by  any 
other  road  than  this — therefore,  of  course,  she  must  now  sud- 
denly come  in  sight. 

She  came  not,  howerer.  And  vexed  and  sick  at  heart  with 
frequent  disappointments,  Thurston  galloped  back  on  his  road 
quite  to  the  verge  of  the  forest,  and  looked  upon  the  country 
and  the  heaving  sea,  now  all  glorious  in  the  morning  light,  and 
his  eye  roved  for  miles  up  and  down  the  coast,  but  uo  human 
being  or  even  beast  of  burden  was  in  sight  upon  the  lonely 
scene.  The  only  sign  of  human  habitation,  in  fact,  was  "the 
smoke  that  so  gracefully  curled"  from  the  grove  of  trees  that 
surrounded  Old  Field  Cottage  in  the  far  distance. 

Half-past  ten  o'clock  !  He  now  knew  that  Marian  would  not 
come.  What  could  be  the  reason  ?  Was  she  sick  ?  No  !  Ma- 
rian was  never  sick ! 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  she  must  have  stayed  the 
whole  week  at  the  house  of  the  neighbor  whom  she  went  to 
nurse.  That  would  also  account  for  his  missing  her  all  the 
week.  And  doubtless  from  that  neighbor's  house  she  had  gone 
to  church  by  another  road. 

No  sooner  had  this  explanation  of  her  non-appearance  occurred 
to  him  than  he  turned  and  spurred  on  his  horse  towards  the 
church,  hoping  to  see  her  there.  He  knew  that  he  should  be 
very  late,  but  that  would  be  nothing,  if  only  he  could  see  that 
one  longed-for  face. 

He  galloped  on  at  the  top  of  his  speed  and  reached  the  vil- 
lage, and  entered  the  church  just  before  the  preacher  took  his 
text, 

He  did  not  hear  the  text — his  whole  attention  was  fixed  upon 
Marian.  Yes !  there  she  sat !  With  her  beautiful  blooming 
face  turned  up  towards  the  preacher,  in  devout  attention  and 
seeming  unconsciousness  of  the  presence  of  auother  soul  in  the 
church 

The  sermon  oroceeded,  and  not  one  moment  did  her  atteu- 


312  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

lion  wander,  and  not  one  word  of  the  discourse  did  Thurston 
hear,  his  eyes,  his  thoughts  being  completely  occupied  by  the 
beautiful  object  of  his  love. 

The  sermon  came  to  an  end — the  closing  prayer,  the  hymn 
and  the  benediction  followed,  and  the  congregation  began  to 
disperse,  and  pour  down  the  aisles. 

Marian  was  taken  up  and  whirled  away  from  him  in  the 
crowd. 

He  could  not,  without  rudeness,  elbow  his  way  among  a  mass 
made  up  so  largely  of  women  and  children,  and  so  he  had  to 
wait  his  time  and  follow  on  slowly  in  the  rear. 

He  got  out  and  reached  the  open  churchyard  and  the  fresh  air. 

But  then  he  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  Marian  placed  in 
her  saddle  by  a  very  handsome  young  man,  who  instantly  threw 
himself  into  another  saddle,  and  rode  on  to  attend  her. 

Devouring  his  own  heart  in  chagrin,  Thurston  stood  looking 
after  them  as  they  rode  on  towards  the  forest  path ;  one  minute 
swearing  mentally  that  he  did  not  care  a  cent  to  make  a  third 
in  such  a  party,  and  the  next  feeling  the  dog-in-the-manger  im- 
pulse, since  he  himself  could  not  woo,  to  mar  the  wooing  of 
another.  But  then  how  could  he,  without  worse  than  Vandalic 
barbarism,  force  himself  into  their  company  ?  Well,  at  any 
rate,  he  would,  he  resolved,  ride  down  that  path,  and  bow  to 
them  as  he  passed.  He  could  tell,  by  their  faces,  he  thought, 
what  the  meaning  of  the  escort  might  be.  That  he  had  a  right 
to  do — a  right  that  could  be  exercised  with  perfect  propriety. 

No  sooner  thought  of  than  done. 

He  sprung  into  his  saddle  and  galloped  after  them.  He 
overtook  them  a  short  distance  in  the  forest.  One  keen  glancp 
in  passing  he  shot  into  their  faces ;  the  countenance  of  tho 
young  man  was  flushed,  eager,  impassionate,  and  bent  towards 
Marian.  The  expression  of  the  young  girl  was  blushing,  down- 
cast, distressed,  embarrassed.  Those  mutual  looks  set  Tliurs- 
ton's  blood  boiling  with  jealousy.  He  could  have  hurled  his 
rival  from  the  saddle,  and  trampled  him  under  foot!  It  was 
^•ith  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  could  restrain  his  passion 


LOVE.  313 

and  govern  himself.  But  he  did  so — effectually,  bowing  haugh- 
tily as  he  passed  them. 

But  Marian's  voice  recalled  him. 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen." 

He  turned  around  and  looked. 

Marian's  face  was  full  of  blushing  embarrassment  and  bashful 
entreaty — her  companion's  was  clouded  with  disappointment 
and  vexation. 

Thurston  rode  back. 

"Well,  Miss  Mayfield,  I  am  at  your  orders." 

"  I  have  a  number  of  things  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Willcoxen, 
and  a  number  of  questions  to  ask.  But  first,  you  are  acquainted 
with  Mr  Barnwell?" 

"Yes."  bowing  coldly. 

"Ride  neai,  then." 

Thurston  now  smiled,  and  went  on  the  right  side  of  Marian, 
where  he  continued  to  ride,  in  silence,  waiting  for  the  young 
girl  to  speak.  But  Marian  either  had  forgotten  what  she  wished 
to  say,  or  else  was  taking  a  long  time  to  arrange  it. 

They  rode  on  in  moody  silence  until  they  reached  a  gate, 
which  Thurston  opened  for  Marian  to  pass  through. 

Here  Mr.  Barnwell  suddenly  stopped,  lifted  his  hat,  and  say- 
ing, gloomily  and  angrily,  that  he  feared  he  had  trespassed  tot 
long  upon  Miss  Mayfield's  society  and  indulgence,  begged  leav* 
to  apologize  for  his  intrusion,  and  to  wish  her  a  very  good 
morning.  And  so  saying,  he  bowed,  turned,  and  rode  back  to 
the  village. 

When  they  were  left  alone,  the  embarrassment  on  either  side 
increased. 

"  You  were  very  early  at  church  to-day,  Miss  Mayfield,"  said 
Thnrston,  by  way  of  saying  something. 

"Yes,"  smiled  Marian,  "but  I  could  not  well  be  otherwise 
than  early,  since  I  was  there  from  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  So  soon !" 

"You  know — or  perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  I  have  a 
class  in  the  Sunday  school." 


314  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"Idiot  that  I  was  to  forget  that!"  thought  Thnrston,  as  the 
sudden  light  broke  on  him,  showing  that  while  he  was  cooling 
his  feet  and  warming  his  temper  by  pacing  up  and  down  St. 
Mary's  forest,  in  expectation  of  seeing  her,  she  was  already 
safely  housed  with  her  class  in  the  Sunday  school.  No  matter ! 
He  secretly  swore  to  be  more  alert  on  the  next  Sabbath  morning. 

"But  I  cannot  compliment  you  upon  the  same  ground,  Mr. 
"Willcoxen,"  said  Marian,  both  gravely  and  sweetly;  "you were 
late  at  Divine  service." 

A  thrill  of  delight  electrified  Thurston's  nerves.  He  was 
"  late" — she  had  noticed  it — she,  whose  attention  seldom  wan- 
dered from  her  prayer-book  or  her  minister's  face — she  had  no- 
ticed his  absence — she  had  waited  for  his  appearance,  perhaps 
impatiently,  longingly  as  he  had  waited  for  her  in  the  woods. 
So  with  love's  sophistry  he  reasoned  as  he  heard  her  words, 
and  an  impetuous  tide  of  emotion  rushed  through  all  his  veins 
and  flushed  his  face !  Forgetting  his  discreet  caution,  forget- 
ting that  their  meetings  were  to  seem  incidental — or  not  caring 
to  use  that  subterfuge  with  her  alone — losing  his  usual  self- 
possession,  he  pressed  towards  her,  exclaiming,  passionately, 
and  half  reproachfully, 

"  Marian,  I  have  much  to  say  to  you — I  have  lived  over 
many  times  the  scene  of  last  Sabbath  evening.  I  have  sought 
you  everywhere,  during  the  whole  week,  with  no  other  result 
than  heart-sickening  disappointment  from  day  to  day  !  Marian, 
why  did  you  inspire  and  then  avoid  me  ?" 

Surprised  at  his  words,  and  confused  by  his  manner,  Marian 
averted  her  eyes,  as  a  vivid  blush  rose  mantling  cheek  and  brow. 

"  I  have  offended  you,"  said  the  young  man,  sorrowfully. 

"  Xo,"  said  the  maiden,  "  only  astonished  me." 

"  Wherefore,  Marian  ?  wherefore  ?  That  I  should  have  sought 
you  again  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul  in  the  search  ?"  he 
asked  earnestly,  ardently — pressing  towards  her.  Her  spirited 
little  horse  shied  angrily,  throwing  up  its  head.  She  became 
more  and  more  confused  and  embarrassed.  Her  face  was  stili 
averted — and  the  blush  burned  like  fire  on  her  cheek. 


LOVE.  315 

"  Marian,"  he  said,  dropping  his  voice  to  the  very  depths  of 
tenderness;  "Marian,  give  me  your  hand,  in  token  of  forgive- 
ness. I  know  that  I  have  been  rash  and  presumptuous;  that 
I  have  no  right  so  suddenly  to  speak  of  feelings  that  have  not, 
however,  arisen  suddenly,  fairest  girl,  but  have  had  possession 
of  my  whole  nature,  heart,  soul  and  spirit,  for  months  past — 
that  have  filled  and  fired  and  consumed  me — like  a  fever  or  a 
madness  !  Forgive  me,  Marian  ;  I  will  control  myself — I  will 
not  shock  or  wound  you  again — give  me  your  hand  in  token 
of  pardon,  and  tell  me  you  will  not  avoid  me." 

With  her  face  still  averted,  and  her  cheek  still  burning,  the 
maiden  held  out  her  hand,  saying  softly, 

"I  was  not  offended,  as  I  told  you  before,  only  surprised  that 
you  should  have  imagined  I  had  avoided  you  ;  when  there  was 
no  earthly  reason  to  do  so,  that  I  know  of." 

He  carried  her  hand  respectfully  to  his  lips.  He  felt  the  un- 
intentional reproach  of  her  candor  and  honesty.  He  covered 
his  feelings  of  compunction  by  saying, 

"  Strange — most  strange,  that  I  could  not  find  you,  when  I 
sought  you  so  eagerly." 

"  I  was  at  home  all  the  week,"  said  Marian,  "  except  on 
Monday." 

"  I  called  at  Old  Field  Cottage  upon  that  very  day,  unfortu 
nately." 

"  So  Edith  told  me,  but  she  did  not  tell  me  that  the  visit  was 
to  me — she  thought  your  coming  partly  accidental." 

"  Well,"  said  Thurston,  as  a  blush  of  honest  shame  mantled 
his  brow — "it  was  partly  so — I  had  been  out  shooting,  and 
passing  close  to  Old  Field  Cottage,  saw  Mrs.  Shields  at  the 
door — thought  my  morning's  spoils  might  not  be  unacceptable, 
and  tired  and  hungry,  accepted  her  invitation  to  breakfast. 
Still,  Marian,  still  the  strongest  feeling  in  my  heart  on  entering, 
was  the  hope  of  seeing  you.  The  consequent  disappointment 
was  very  grievous  to  be  borne,  followed  as  it  was  by  daily  ami 
heart-sickening  failures.  Marian?"  he  suddenly  said,  changing 
his  manner,  and  leaning  towards  her. 


316  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Her  skittish  little  horse  shied  again.  She  withdrew  her  hand 
and  turned  away  her  head,  though  without  anger. 

''  Let  us  speak,"  she  said,  "  of  the  subject  we  were  discussing 
last  Sabbath  evening." 

"  As  you  will,  fairest  Marian  ;  I  have  already  taken  some 
steps  towards  entering  upon  your  service,  ray  liege  lady,"  he 
answered,  with  a  manner  perfectly  respectful,  but  so  pointed  that 
the  maiden,  dropping  her  eyes,  said — 

"  Not  my  humble  service,  good  sir,  but  the  higher  one  of  your 
fellow  citizens."  There  was  a  pause. 

"You  do  not  ask  me,  Marian,  what  these  first  steps  have 
been.  You  are  perhaps  no  longer  interested  in  them." 

"It  is  not  considered  polite  to  ask  questions,"  said  Marian, 
archly  ;  "  nevertheless,  I  am  waiting  anxiously  to  hear." 

"  It  is  not  much  that  I  have  accomplished.  When  one  feels 
within  oneself,  inspirations  and  energies  capable  of  accomplish- 
ing great  things,  it  is  disheartening  to  see  what  poor  tools  we 
have  to  work  with,  and  what  poor  materials  to  operate  upon — 
with  what  small,  slow  steps  we  approach  our  object." 

"  The  river  is  filled  from  small  springs,  and  the  mountain 
grows  by  accretion.  All  reforms  have  started  with  one  man, 
and  its  victories  have  been  single  converts,  few  and  far 
between." 

How  difficult  to  gaze  upon  the  beautiful,  eloquent  face,  the 
clear,  blue  eye,  soft  with  feeling  and  radiant  with  light,  the 
roseate  cheek  and  sunny,  rippling  hair,  the  glowing  lips, 
smiling  and  speaking;  and  not  bow  down  before  her  beauty  ; 
and  not  give  utterance  to  the  passion,  throbbing,  burning  in 
his  bosom  !  How  hard  to  keep  down  the  rising  heart  !  How 
hard  to  ride  and  talk  of  social  ethics  when  he  only  wished  to 
fold  that  glowing  form  to  his  bosom  1  He  did  not  care  a 
farthing  for  her  young  inspired  wisdom  ;  he  adored  her  enchant- 
ing beauty,  not  thinking  that  that  beauty  owed  its  greatest, 
fascination  to  the  informing  spirit  within. 

He  grew  impatient  of  their  mode  of  travelling — those  shying 
horses — the  detestable  beasts  kept  them  so  far  apart,  He 


LOVE.  317 

wished  that  the  fair  girl  and  himself  had  beeu  only  walking,  or 
sitting  down  somewhere  on  some  bank  or  fallen  tree.  He 
longed  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  to  clasp  her  hands,  to  pour 
out  before  her  the  flood  of  passion  that  was  swelling  in  his 
bosom  !  To  entreat  her  to  forget  her  wisdom,  and  her  philoso- 
phv,  and  influence,  and  to  remember  that  she  was  a  beautiful 
girl,  the  most  charming  and  the  most  beloved  in  the  world,  and 
to  beseech  her  to  hear  him,  to  bless  him,  to  let  him  lead  her 
into  the  Eden  of  love.  Gazing  on  her  enchanting  beauty,  he 
was,  in  imagination,  far  away  in  that  Eden  already. 

She  recalled  him,  her  calm,  sweet  voice  coming  coolly  across 
all  that  heat  and  turbulence  of  passion  and  imagination. 

"  You  have  not  yet  told  me,  Mr.  Willcoxen,  of  the  nature  of 
the  steps  you  have  taken  towards  a  commencement." 
Thurston  frowned  and  smiled  slightly  as  he  said, 
"  They  are  so  trifling,  so  inefficient,  that  I  hesitate  to  tell  you." 
"  They  may  seem  trifling,  but  of  their  efficiency  we  must  take 
time  to  judge." 

"  Well,  you  shall  hear,  and  then  you  shall  judge,"  said 
Thurston,  guarding  his  offending  glances  as  well  as  he  could. 
"  I  have  offered  myself  to  the  Board  of  Directors  to  give  a  free 
course  of  lectures  at  C Academy.  A  lecture  is  to  be  deliv- 
ered every  Monday  evening,  and  the  lecture  room  to  be  thrown 
open  to  the  public.  The  course  will  embrace  a  review  of  history, 
political  economy,  social  philosophy,  education,  the  progress  of 
society,  and  lastly  a  comparative  view  of  the  present  state  of 
civilized  nations." 

"Excellent!"  exclaimed  Marian,  smiling  upon  him.     "And 
you  call  this  trivial  ?     Pray,  sir,  were  you  thinking  of  doing 
something  superhuman,  that  you  depreciate  £/«'«?" 
Thurston  gayly  answered  her  smile,  and  then  said, 
"  I  have  sketched  out  quite  a  wide  field  of  labor,  which  will 
take  me  the  whole  winter  to  cover ;  but  my  doubt  is,  whether 
I  can  do  anything  like  justice  to  the  subjects,  or  whether,  if  I 
do,  1  shall  find  any  sort  of  favor  with  my  audience,  or  any  sort 
of  good  fruits  will  come  of  the  seed  thus  sown." 
20 


318  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  '  Oar  doubts  are  traitors,  and  make  us  lose  the  good  wo 
might  attain,  by  fearing  the  attempt,'"  quoted  Marian.  Then 
she  added,  "  Your  plan  is  very  good — your  course,  if  you  do  it 
justice,  will  be  a  complete  course  of  instruction  and  enlighten- 
ment for  these  people  ;  and  under  one  or  another  of  your  heads, 
you  can  speak  any  new  thought,  teach  any  new  truth,  that  you 
please  to  utter,  or  they  need  to  hear.  But  when  do  these 
lectures  begin  ?" 

"  To-morrow  evening  the  introductory  discourse,  a  retrospect 
of  history,  is  to  be  delivered.  If  you  had  been  anywhere  else 
than  shut  up  in  Old  Field  Cottage,  you  would  have  seen  the 
affair  announced.  And  yet,  fair  inspirer  !  so  debarred  have  I 
been  from  your  presence,  and  so  anxious  have  I  felt  to  find  you, 
that  not  one  preparatory  note  have  I  made  for  that  lecture  to 
be  given  to-morrow." 

"  Xo  matter,"  said  Marian,  "if  you  have  thought  and  felt 
a  great  deal  in  your  life — if  you  have  a  warm  heart  and  an 
active  brain,  '  it  will  be  given  you  in  that  hour  what  to  say.'  " 

"  Be  you  only  there,  beautiful  Marian — be  you  only  there 
before  me,  with  your  eloquent  face,  that  I  may  draw  strength 
and  fire  from  those  inspiring  eyes,  and  I  shall  not  fail.  I  shall 
be,  at  best,  your  medium,  Marian,  and  if  your  spirit  speaks  by 
my  lips,  I  shall  not  fail  to  speak  'as  man  never  spake,'  save 
one  !"  said  Thurston,  with  enthusiasm,  pressing  towards  her. 

But  her  willful  and  spirited  pony  threw  up  its  elegant  little 
head,  and  shying  aside,  trotted  on  before.  Marian's  face,  too, 
was  averted,  and  her  cheeks  dyed  with  blushes,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  path  before  her. 

Thurston  did  not  curse  the  wanton  little  beastie,  any  more 
than  he  did  its  mistress ;  but  he  mentally  swore  that  wooing  a 
maiden  on  horseback,  was  to  a  lover  the  most  exasperating 
manner  of  courtship  on  earth. 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  she  had  to  walk  to  and  from  church," 
was  his  charitable  aspiration  as  he  overtook  her. 

Marian  saw  the  chagrin  of  his  countenance ;  and  she  said, 
though  with  her  flushed  cheek  still  averted. 


LOVE.  319 

"  I  shall  not  fail  to  be  present  at  yoar  lecture  ;  not  certainly 
in  the  vain  hope  of  being  able  to  give  you  countenance,  but  for 
the  pleasure  it  will  give  me  to  hear  you." 

"Not  give  me  countenance !"  he  exclaimed,  vehemently; 
"  t  tell  you,  fair  Marian,  that  your  clear  eyes,  for  me,  radiate 
inspiration,  power." 

"  Pray,  do  not  say  such  things  to  me,"  said  the  maiden, 
veiling  her  eyes  with  their  pure  white  lids  ;  "  believe  me,  flattery 
is  always  most  distasteful  from  one  whom  we  wish  to  esteem." 

"  Flattery  !  Good  Heaven,  Marian  !  I  cannot  flatter  you  1 
Words  are  too  worn  and  weak,  to  express  the  truth  of  what  you 
seem  to  me,  much  less  to  exceed  it." 

"Our  roads  separate  here,"  said  the  young  girl,  as  at  that 
moment  they  emerged  from  the  forest  into  the  open  country, 
that  stretched  to  the  bay  in  the  distance. 

"  And  must  we  part  here,  fair  one  ?" 

"  I  believe  so,  as  our  homes  lie  in  opposite  directions." 

"  Heaven  grant  that  it  may  not  long  be  so!"  fervently  ejacu- 
lated the  young  gentleman. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Willcoxen,"  said  the  maiden,  turning 
her  pony's  head. 

"  Stay,  fairest  Marian,  one  moment !" 

She  paused  and  looked  around,  while  her  little  pony  showed 
his  disapprobation  by  pawing  the  ground,  and  champing  the 
bit,  and  shaking  and  tossing  his  willful  little  head. 

"  Shall  we  not  meet  again  this  week  ?"  he  entreated. 

"I  shall  be  at  the  lecture,  to-morrow  evening." 

"  Heaven  speed  the  hours !     And  after  that,  Marian  ?" 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day,  is  the  evil  thereof?"  she  said  softly, 
smiling  and  blushing,  and  veiling  her  eyes. 

"  Nay,  now,  do  not  tantalize  me ;  how  shall  I  see  you  this 
week  as  often  as  I  wish  to  do  so  ?"  he  pleaded,  attempting  to 
take  ber  hand,  a  freedom  that  her  capricious  little  pony  would 
in  nowise  permit.  "  Tell  me,  fairest — tell  me — how,  and  where, 
shall  1  be  able  to  find  you  this  week  ?" 

"  At  home,"  said  the  young  girl,  with  a  slight  surprise  in  her 


320  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

tone ;  "  Edith  will  be  glad  to  see  her  old  school-mate,  at  the 
cottage." 

"  And  you,  dearest  Marian  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see,  and  converse  with  one  who 
has  the  heart  to  labor  earnestly  and  gratuitously,  in  the  cause 
of  education  and  reform  ;"  said  the  maiden,  in  a  low,  soft  voice. 

"  Thank  you,  fairest  and  dearest ;  I  shall  find  my  way  to  Old 
Fields." 

"  Once  more — good  day,  Mr.  Willcoxen,"  she  said — turning 
once  again  to  ride  homeward. 

"  '  Good  day' — good  night,  say  rather — for  ray  day  star  is 
about  to  set,"  said  Thurston,  gazing  after  her. 

Then  he  called — 

"  Miss  Mayfield !" 

She  looked  back. 

"  Subjugate  the  willfulness  of  that  wicked  little  beastie  of 
yours." 

Marian  laughed. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Willcoxen." 

"  Good-bye,  till  to-morrow,  most  beautiful  Marian !"  said 
Thurston,  turning  reluctuantly  down  the  road  that  led  to  Dell- 
Delight,  and  thinking  that  all  "delight"  lay  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

Marian  rode  on — her  countenance  radiant  with  a  new  in- 
spiring joy  that  seemed  to  elevate  it  into  glorious  supernal 
beauty.  She  rode  on — the  celestial  smile  still  shining  in  her 
eyes,  soon  reached  Old  Field  Cottage,  where  the  neat  table  was 
Bet  for  dinner  and  Edith  was  awaiting  her. 

"  Why,  Marian,"  said  Edith,  as  the  blooming  girl  took  her 
place  at  the  table,  "  I  am  not  used  to  paying  compliments,  but 
really  you  must  have  received  a  baptism  of  beauty!  livinj 
beauty !  I  never  saw  a  face  so  radiant !" 

In  the  meanwhile  Thurston  quickened  his  horse's  steps,  and  in 
half  an  hour  reached  Dell-Delight  in  good  time  for  the  miser's 
dinner. 

"Humph!  you're  getting  to  be  some  sort  of  a  saint  here, 


LOVE.  321 

Intel}',  aren't  yon,  young  man  ?  Quite  regular  in  your  attend- 
ance upon  Divine  Worship.  Now  holiness  don't  run  in  on* 
family !" 

"  lie's  in  love !"  said  Fanny. 

" '  From  the  glance  of  her  eye 
Shun  danger  and  fly, 
For  fatal's  the  glance  of  Kate  Kearney.' " 

"  Kate  Kearney?  Who  is  she?  Who  is  she!"  quickly 
questioned  the  little  old  man,  piercing  his  keen  little  black  eyes 
like  needles  into  the  eyes  of  the  youth.  "  Some  Irish  beggar, 
whose  blowzy  face  you  have  fallen  in  love  with  ?  Take  care, 
my  young  ape  !  You  know  the  terms,  and  you  know  me !  I 
give  no  gold  to  gild  love  in  a  cottage !  No,  no  !  No,  no  1 
And  you  ought  to  know  what  love  in  a  cottage  means  just 
hereabouts — a  low  hut,  with  a  mud  floor,  clay  and  pitch  walls, 
a  leaking  roof,  a  smoky  hearth  and  nothing  to  cook  on  it,  a 
wife  starved  into  a  lingering  consumption,  and  ten  children 
with  bare  legs,  matted  hair  anil  dirty  faces — who  don't  starve 
because  it  is  a  great  deal  more  natural  to  steal  I" 

Thurstou  shuddered — then  shook  off  the  creepy  feeling,  and 
laughing,  said, 

"  Believe  me,  sir,  you  may  be  at  ease  npon  my  account.  I 
have  no  more  taste  for  love  in  a  cottage — than  you  have !" 

"  Don't  believe  him !     He's  in  love !"  said  Fanny,  exultingly. 

" '  Love  rules  the  cotirt.  the  camp,  the  grove, 
And  men  below  and  saints  above, 
For  love  is  heaven,  and  h-aven  is  love!'" 

"  Peace,  you  singing  fool !  I'll  not  be  deceived,  my  young 
gentleman — I  ass  you  again,  who  is  Catherine  Kearney,  and 
wnere  does  she  live  ?" 


1 '  Oh.  did  you  ne'er  meet  this  Kate  Kearney! 
She  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarny. 
Beware  of  her  smile — for  many  a  wile 
Lies  hid  in  the  smile  of  Kate  Kearney!"' 


322  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

"  SILENCE,  Fanny,  I  say.  Now,  sir,  will  you  answer  my 
question,  Mr.  Jackanapes?" 

Thurston  laughed. 

"  She  has  just  told  you,  sir!  The  lady  was  a  celebrated  Irish 
beauty,  who  lived  some  years  ago  upon  the  shores  of  the  lake 
of  Killarny,  and  whom  some  rhyming  fellow  has  made  im- 
mortal." 

"  Humph !  no  one  can  tell  when  that  singing  idiot  is  chant- 
ing truth  or  falsehood." 

"Pray,  sir,  leave  poor  Fanny  in  peace — don't  scold  her." 

"  Don't  believe  him !     He's  in  love,"  said  Fanny. 

" '  In  peace  love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed, 
In  war  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed, 
In  halls  in  gay  attire  is  seen, 
In  hamlets  dances  on  the  green.'  " 

"  Aye !  I  shouldn't  wonder  the  least  if  there  was  a  petticoat 
in  the  case.  Well!  I  have  no  objection,  if  it  be  heavily  em- 
bossed with  gold  bullion!  You  know  my  conditions,  Sir 
Dandy !  She  must  be  a  six-figured  heiress !" 

'"And  what  is  your  fortune,  my  pretty  maid? 
And  what  is  your  fortune,  my  pretty  maid?' 
4  My  face  is  my  fortune,  sir,'  she  said, 
'My  face  is  my  fortune,  sir,'  she  said!" 

sung  Fanny,  archly  nodding  her  head,  and  changing  her  face 
and  her  tone  to  suit  the  two  voices. 

"Peace,  idiot,  I  say!  Eh!  now,  Thurston?  You  under- 
stand ?  A  six-figured  fortune !  Though,  where  you  are  to  find 
such  an  heiress.  I  don't  know,  unless  you  could  take  the  little 
npe,  Jacquelira,  from  Xace  Grimshaw !  Eh !  you  handsome 
dog?" 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

FOREST       WALKS. 

" — The  still  green  places  where  they  met 
The  moonlit  branches  dewy  wet, 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word, 
The  entile,  the  embrace,  the  tone  that  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade."—  WhiUier. 

T^E  next  evening  the  lecture-room  at  the  academy  was  tilled 
at  a  very  early  hour,  by  a  crowd — the  greater  part  of  which. 
alas  !  were  drawn  thither,  not  so  much  from  the  desire  of  intel- 
lectual gratification,  as  from  the  idleness  and  vain  curiosity  thai 
would  have  led  them  to  prefer  a  traveling  circus  as  an  evening 
entertainment,  had  such  a  thing  stopped  at  their  village. 

Marian  was  present,  under  the  care  of  Colonel  Thornton. 
She  was  very  simply  dressed,  as  usual,  and  seated  near  the  cen- 
tre of  the  assembly — where,  nevertheless,  her  beauty  shone,  fail- 
as  the  moon  from  the  clouds. 

And  the  young  lecturer,  to  whom  her  clear  eyes  were  often 
raised  in  hope  and  expectancy  ?  Thurston  Willcoxen  was  one 
upon  whom  Nature  had  lavished  all  her  rarest  gifts  of  mental 
and  personal  beauty  and  grace.  And  never  had  he  appeared  so 
fascinating  as  this  evening,  when  commencing  his  discourse  in  a 
quiet,  modest  manner,  and  gradually  warming  with  his  subject, 
his  fine  face  grew  radiant  with  spirit-light,  and  eloquence  glowed 
like  fire  on  his  lips. 

Many  a  young  maiden's  heart  throbbed  under  that  soul-lit 
eye  and  soul-thrilling  tone. 

And  Marian,  his  own  beloved,  recognized  a  heart  and  brain 
and  spirit,  higher,  greater  than  her  own — recognized  them  without 
jealousy,  without  a  single  wish  to  rival  or  excel  them — recog- 
nized them  with  a  woman's  fervent,  cordial,  enthusiastic,  whole- 
souled  homage. 

(323, 


324  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

All !  beautiful  Marian !  greatness  of  heart  and  brain  and  spirit 
are  not  enough !  Satan  was  great  in  these  things — great  in  the 
passions  of  his  soul,  the  power  of  his  intellect,  and  the  infinity 
of  his  spirit ! — yet  he  fell ! 

One  single  comprehensive  grace  is  worth  them  all !  A  slave 
may  have  it — the  conqueror  of  the  world  may  lack  it !  It  is  the 
child's  simplest  gift — it  is  the  hero's  crowning  glory ! 

The  lecturer  ceased.  The  impression  that  he  made  was  deep 
and  lasting. 

As  he  descended  from  the  stand,  friends  and  acquaintances 
crowded  around  him  with  congratulations.  He  received  and 
acknowledged  them  all  with  graceful  courtesies,  but  his  eyei> 
wandering,  sought  her  for  whom  he  had  taken  all  this  trouble. 
And  espying  her  at  last,  quietly  waiting  in  the  centre  of  the 
crowd,  he  escaped  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  made  his  way  towards 
her 

She  met  him.  He  took  her  hand  within  his  own,  deferentially 
pressed  it,  and  seeking  to  meet  her  eyes,  deprecatingly  whis- 
pered his  doubts  whether  his  effort  that  evening  had  met  her 
approbation. 

"It  would  be  presumptuous  in  me  to  praise  it!" she  answered 
fervently,  with  a  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  a  glance  into  his  eyes, 
that  sent  an  electric  shock  of  joy  through  every  nerve  and  vein 
to  his  heart's  core. 

"  Marian !  If  you  are  disengaged,  and  will  be  at  home  to- 
morrow, I  will  call  at  your  house  in  the  morning." 

"  I  will  wait  you  there,  and  until  then,  good-bye,"  she  said, 
smiling. 

"  Good  night,  my  day-star  !  I  shall  dream  of  you  till  then  !" 
he  murmured,  in  a  tone  audible  only  to  her,  as  he  gave  her  back 
in  charge  of  her  deaf,  poor,  blind,  old  escort. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  red,  autumnal  sun  was  but  an 
hour  or  two  above  the  horizon,  and  the  pearly  frost  still  lay  on 
the  brown  and  burnished  meadow  lands,  Thurston  rode  from 
Pell-Delight  to  Old  Field  Cottage. 

When  he  reached  the  little  arched  gate,  over  which  the  lovely 
morning-glories  bloomed  amid  the  frost,  IIP  alisrhted,  tied 


FOREST      WALKS.  325 

his  horse,  and  passed  up  the  little  flower-bordered  walk  to  the 
door,  and  rapped. 

It  was  opened  by  Marian,  who,  the  first  instant  she  saw  him, 
colored  vividly,  and  the  next  smiled  and  invited  him  to  enter. 

There  never  was  such  a  home-like  little  palace  as  that  cottage 
parlor.  It  was  so  clean  and  quiet,  the  hearth  was  so  bright, 
and  the  fire  so  clear,  and  the  outlook  from  the  windows  so  free 
and  wide ! 

Edith  was  sitting  by  the  back  window  making  a  child's  apron. 

She  arose  and  greeted  her  visitor,  handed  him  a  chair  to  the 
fire,  and  resumed  her  seat  and  occupation. 

Marian  took  up  a  little  crimson  hood  that  she  was  quilting, 
and  with  a  smiling  reference  to  the  lecture  of  the  preceding 
evening,  sat  down  and  pursued  her  work. 

The  quiet,  domestic  air  of  the  little  place  soon  influenced 
him,  and  he  speedily  felt  at  home,  and  chatted  freely  and  gayly 
with  the  two  young  women. 

Marian  told  him  that  his  friend  and  admirer,  aunt  Jenny,  had 
taken  little  Miriam  and  gone  into  the  woods  to  gather  walnuts, 
a  thing  which  she  did  every  fine  morning,  in  order  to  amass  a 
Christmas  hoard ;  but  that  she  would  be  very  much  disappointed 
and  grieved  at  having  missed  him. 

After  prolonging  his  call  a?  far  as  good  manners  would  sanc- 
tion, Thurston  arose  and  took  a  reluctant  leave. 

Marian  attended  him  to  the  gate. 

"Marian,"  he  said,  lingering  before  he  mounted  his  horse, 
"there  does  not  bloom  a  flower  at  Dell-Delight !" 

She  smiled,  and  gathered  a  rich  scented  white  tea-rose  and 
handed  him.  He  touched  it  lightly  with  his  lips,  sprang  inlj 
his  saddle,  bowed  deeply  and  rode  off.  And  Marian  returned 
to  her  quilting,  humming  a  song  as  she  sewed. 

The  visit  had  been  very  pleasant,  yet  not  altogether  satisfac- 
tory to  Thurston.  It  was  very  tantalizing  to  sit  there  and  see 
and  speak  to  his  beloved  only  in  the  presence  of  Edith.  In 
fact,  so  unsatisfying  had  been  this  call,  that  he  had  little  desire 
frequently  to  repeat  it,  even  had  such  a  course  been  prudent 


326  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Though  the  few  days  were  helped  onward  by  his  preparation 
of  the  second  discourse  with  which  he  secretly  hoped  to  please 
her  even  more  than  he  had  done  with  the  first  one,  and  though 
his  labor  was  lightened  by  anticipation  of  the  Sunday's  meet- 
ing, and  the  Monday's  lecture,  yet  the  time  lagged  heavily.  He 
counted  the  days  and  the  hours.  He  had  no  hope  of  seeing 
her  before  the  Sabbath.  What  then  was  his  surprise  and  joy 
when  riding  through  the  forest  on  Friday  morning,  to  meet 
Marian  returning  from  the  village  an'd  on  foot.  She  was  ra- 
diant with  health  and  beauty,  and  blushing  and  smiling  with 
joy,  as  she  met  him.  A  little  basket  hung  upon  her  arm.  To 
dismount  and  join  her,  to  take  the  basket  from  her  arm,  and 
look  in  her  face  and  declare  in  broken  exclamations  his  delight 
at  seeing  her,  were  the  words  and  the  work  of  an  instant. 

"And  whither  away,  this  morning,  fairest  Marian?"  he  in- 
quired, when  unrebuked  he  had  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
drawn  it  through  his  arm. 

"  I  have  been  to  the  village,  and  am  now  going  home,"  said 
the  maiden. 

"It  is  a  long  walk  through  the  forest." 

"Yes,  but — my  pony  has  cast  a  shoe  and  lamed  himself 
slightly,  and  I  fear  I  shall  have  to  dispense  with  his  services  for 
a  few  days !" 

"  Thauk  God!"  fervently  ejaculated  Thurston  to  himself. 

"But  it  is  beautiful  weather,  and  I  enjoy  walking,"  said  the 
young  girl. 

"  Marian — dearest  Marian,  will  you  let  me  attend  yon  home  ! 
The  walk  is  lonely,  and  it  may  not  be  quite  safe  for  a  fair  woman 
to  take  it  unattended." 

"I  have  no  fears  of  interruption,"  said  Marian. 

"Yet,  you  will  not  refuse  to  let  me  attend  you?  Do  not, 
Marian  I"  he  pleaded,  earnestly,  fervently,  clasping  her  hand, 
and  pouring  the  whole  strength  of  his  soul  in  the  gaze  that  he 
fastened  on  her  face. 

"  I  thank  you — but  you  were  riding  the  other  way." 

"It  was  merely  an  idle  saunter,  to  help  to  kill  the  time  br 


FOREST      WALKS.  321 

tween  this  and  Sunday,  dearest  girl  I  Now  rest  you,  my  queer 
— my  queeu !  upon  this  mossy  rock,  as  on  a  throne,  while  I 
ride  forward  and  leave  my  horse.  I  will  be  with  you  again  in 
fifteen  minutes  ;  in  the  meantime  here  is  something  for  you  to 
look  at,"  he  said,  drawing  from  his  pocket  an  elegant  little 
volume  bound  in  purple  and  gold,  and  laying  it  in  her  lap.  He 
then  smiled,  sprang  into  his  saddle,  bowed,  and  galloped  away 
— leaving  Marian  to  examine  her  book.  It  was  a  London  copy 
of  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen,  superbly  illustrated;  one  of  the 
rarest  books  to  be  found  in  the  whole  country,  at  that  day. 
Ou  the  fly-leaf,  the  name  of  Marian  was  written,  in  the  hand  of 
Thurston. 

Some  minutes  passed  in  the  pleasing  examination  of  the 
volume — and  Marian  was  still  turning  the  leaves  with  unmixed 
pleasure — pleasure  in  the  gift,  and  pleasure  in  the  giver — when 
Thurston,  even  before  the  appointed  time,  suddenly  rejoined  her. 

"So  absorbed  in  Spenser,  that  you  did  not  even  hear  or  see 
me!"  said  the  young  man,  half  reproachfully. 

"  I  was  indeed  far  gone  in  Fairy  Land !  Oh !  I  thank  you 
so  much  for  your  beautiful  present.  It  is,  indeed,  a  treasure. 
I  shall  prize  it  greatly,"  said  Marian,  in  unfeigned  delight. 

"Do  you  know  that  Fairy  Laud  is  not  obsolete,  dearest 
Marian  ?"  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  her  charming  face,  with 
an  ardor  and  earnestness  that  caused  hers  to  sink. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice — and  rising  from  the  rock 
— "let  us  leave  this  place  and  go  forward." 

They  walked  on,  speaking  softly  of  many  things,  of  the  lec- 
tures, of  the  beautiful  autumnal  weather,  of  Spenser,  of  any- 
thing except  the  one  interest  that  now  occupied  both  hearts. 
The  fear  of  startling  her  bashful  trust,  and  banishing  those  be- 
witching glances  that  sometimes  lightened  on  his  face,  made 
him  cautious,  and  restrained  his  eagerness ;  while  excessive 
consciousness  kept  her  cheeks  dyed  with  blushes,  and  her  nerves 
vibrating  sweet,  wild  music,  like  the  strings  of  some  asoliau 
harp  when  swept  by  the  swift  south  wind. 

He  determined,  during  the  walk,  to  plead  his  love,  and  ascer- 


828  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

tain  its  fate.  Aye!  but  how  approach  the  subject,  when,  at 
every  ardent  glance  or  tone,  her  face,  her  heart,  shrunk  and 
closed  up,  like  the  leaves  of  the  sensitive  plant. 

So  they  rambled  on,  discovering  new  beauties  in  nature ;  now 
it  would  be  merely  an  oak  leaf  of  rare  richness  of  coloring ; 
now  some  tiny  insect  with  finished  elegance  of  form ;  now  a 
piece  of  the  dried  branch  of  a  tree  that  Thurston  picked  up, 
to  bid  her  note  the  delicately  blending  shades  in  its  gray  hue, 
or  the  curves  and  lines  of  grace  in  its  twisted  form — the  beauty 
of  its  slow  return  to  dust ;  and  now  perhaps  it  would  be  the 
mingled  colors  in  the  heaps  of  dried  leaves  drifted  at  the  foot 
of  some  great  tree. 

And  then  from  the  minute  loveliness  of  nature's  sweet,  small 
things,  their  eyes  would  wander  to  the  great  glory  of  the  au- 
tumnal sky,  or  the  variegated  array  of  the  gorgeous  forest. 

Thurston  knew  a  beautiful  glade,  not  far  distant,  to  the  left 
of  their  path,  from  which  there  was  a  very  fine  view  that  he 
wished  to  show  his  companion.  And  he  led  Marian  thither  by 
a  little  moss  bordered,  descending  path. 

It  was  a  natural  opening  in  the  forest,  from  which,  down  a 
still,  descending  vista,  between  the  trees,  could  be  seen  the  dis- 
tant bay,  and  the  open  country  near  it,  all  glowing  under  a 
refulgent  sky,  and  hazy  with  the  golden  mist  of  Indian  Summer. 
Before  them  the  upper  branches  of  the  nearest  trees  formed  a 
natural  arch  above  the  picture. 

Marian  stood  and  gazed  upon  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the 
scene  with  soft,  steady  eyes,  with  lips  breathlessly  severed,  in, 
perfect  silence  and  growing  emotion. 

"This  pleases  you,"  said  Thurston. 

She  nodded,  without  removing  her  gaze. 

"You  find  it  charming?" 

She  nodded  again,  and  smiled. 

"You  were  never  here  before." 

"  Never." 

"  Marian,  yon  are  a  lover  of  nature." 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  softly,  "whether  it  be  love,  oi 


FOREST      WALKS.  329 

worship,  or  both ;  but  some  pictures  spell-bind  me  I  stand 
amidst  a  scene  like  this  enchanted,  until  my  soul  has  absorbed 
as  much  of  its  beauty  and  glory  and  wisdom  as  it  can  give. 
As  the  Ancient  Mariner  held  with  his  'glittering  eye'  the  wed- 
ding guest,  so  such  a  picture  holds  me  enthralled  until  I  have 
heard  the  story  and  learned  the  lesson  it  has  to  tell  and  teach 
me !  Did  you  ever,  in  the  midst  of  nature's  liberal  ministra- 
tions, feel  your  spirit  absorbing,  assimilating,  growing  ?  or  is  it 
only  a  fantastic  notion  of  mine  that  beauty  is  the  food  of  soul  ?" 

She  turned  her  eloquent  eyes  full  upon  him. 

He  forgot  his  prudence,  forgot  her  claims,  forgot  everything, 
and  caught  and  strained  her  to  his  bosom,  pressing  passionate 
kisses  upon  her  lips,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  kneeling  at 
her  feet,  imploring  her  to  forgive  him — to  hear  him ! 

Marian  stood  with  her  face  bowed  and  hidden  in  her  hands, 
but  above  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  her  forehead,  crimsoned, 
might  be  seen.  One  half  her  auburn  hair  had  escaped  and 
rippled  down  upon  her  bosom  in  glittering  disorder.  And  so 
she  stood  a  few  moments.  But  soon,  removing  her  hands  and 
turning  away,  she  said,  in  a  troubled  tone, 

"Rise.  Never  kneel  to  any  creature — that  homage  is  due 
the  Creator  alone — oh  !  rise." 

"  First  pardon  me,  first  hear  me,  beloved  girl." 

"  Oh  !  rise — rise,  I  beg  you.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  man  on 
his  knee,  except  in  prayer  to  God,"  she  said,  walking  away. 

He  sprang  up  and  followed  her,  took  her  hand,  and  with 
gentle  compulsion,  made  her  sit  down  upon  a  bank,  and  then 
he  sank  beside  her,  exclaiming  eagerly,  vehemently,  yet  in  a 
low,  half  smothered  tone, 

"  Marian,  I  love  you.  I  never  spoke  these  words  to  woman 
before;  for  I  never  loved  before.  Marian,  the  first  moment 
that  I  saw  you  I  loved  you,  without  knowing  what  new  life  it 
was  that  had  kindled  in  my  nature.  I  have  loved  more  and 
more  every  day !  I  love  you  more  than  words  can  tell  or  heart 
conceive !  I  only  live  in  your  presence — Marian !  not  one 
word  or  glance  for  me?  Oh!  speak — turn  your  dear  face 


330  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

towards  me,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  gently  around  her 
head,  "  speak  to  me,  Marian,  for  I  adore,  I  worship  you." 

"  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  loved  in  that  way,  I  do  not  wish  it, 
for  it  is  wrong — idolatrous,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  trembling  voice. 

"  Oh,  u-hat  do  you  mean !  Is  the  love  upon  which  my 
life  seems  to  hang  so  offensive  to  you  ?  Say,  Marian !  Oh ! 
you  are  compassionate  by  nature — how  can  you  keep  me  in 
the  torture  of  suspense  ?" 

"  I  do  not  keep  you  so." 

"  You  will  let  me  love  you  ?" 

Marian  slipped  her  hand  in  his — that  was  her  reply. 

"  You  will  love  me?" 

For  all  answer  she  gently  pressed  his  fingers.  He  pressed 
her  hand  to  his  heart — to  his  lips — covering  it  with  kisses. 

"  Yet,  oh  !  speak  to  me,  dearest;  let  me  hear  from  you  lips 
that  you  love  me — a  little — but  better  than  I  deserve.  "Will 
you?  Say,  Marian.  Speak,  dearest  girl." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  thrilling  tone. 
"  I  am  disturbed — wish  to  grow  quiet — and  must  go  home. 
Let  us  return." 

One  more  passionate  kiss  of  the  hand  he  clasped,  and  then. 
he  helped  her  to  her  feet,  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  and 
led  her  up  the  moss-covered  rocks  that  formed  the  natural 
steps  of  the  ascent  that  led  to  the  homeward  path. 

They  were  now  near  the  verge  of  the  forest,  which,  when 
they  reached,  Marian  drew  her  arm  from  his,  and  extending 
her  hand,  said, 

"  This  is  the  place  our  roads  part." 

"  But  you  will  let  me  attend  you  home  ?" 

"  No — it  would  make  the  return  walk  too  long." 

"  That  can  be  no  consideration.  I  beg  you  will  let  me  go 
with  you,  Marian." 

"  No — it  would  not  be  convenient  to  Edith  to-day,"  said 
Marian,  quickly  drawing  her  hand  from  his  detaining  grasp, 
waving  him  adieu,  and  walking  swiftly  away  across  the  meadow. 

Thurston  gazed  after  her;  strongly  tempted  to  follow  her; 


FOREST      WALKS.  831 

yet  withal  admitting  that  it  was  best  that  she  had  declined 
his  escort  to  the  cottage ;  and  thanking  Heaven  that  the  op- 
portunity would  again  be  afforded  to  take  an  "  incidental" 
stroll  with  her,  as  she  should  walk  to  church  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing; and  so  forming  the  resolution  to  haunt  the  forest-path 
from  seven  o'clock  that  next  Sabbath  morning  until  he  should 
soe  her,  Thurston  hurried  home. 

And  how  was  it  with  Marian  ?  She  hastened  to  the  cottage, 
laid  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  set  herself  at  work  as  dili- 
gently as  usual ;  but  a  higher  bloom  glowed  on  ner  cheek,  a 
softer,  brighter  light  beamed  in  her  eye,  a  warmer,  sweeter 
smile  hovered  around  her  lips,  a  deeper,  richer  tone  thrilled  in 
her  voice.  "  A  dream  was  on  her  soul."  A  feeling  of  infinite 
content — a  sense  of  being  at  home  on  this  earth — of  being 
satisfied — of  being  at  rest — such  as  she  had  never  felt  since  in 
childhood  she  had  reposed  on  her  mother's  bosom.  She  felt 
herself  no  longer  as  before,  a  stranger  and  a  pilgrim  upon 
earth,  (going  about  doing  good,  loving  all,  it  was  true,  but,) 
unloved  of  any.  She  was  no  longer  alone — she  was  beloved — 
she  had  heard  it ;  she  felt  it ;  she  knew  it !  Not  words  alone 
had  told  her  so — those  thrilling  arms  that  had  clasped  her 
form — most  earnest  and  truthful  even  in  their  rashness — and 
quivering  with  great  emotion  even  in  their  strength ;  that 
heart  that  had  throbbed  so  wildly  against  her  own  ;  those  eyes 
that  had  gazed  so  fondly,  passionately,  prayerfully  in  hers, 
pleading  for  her  love ;  all  these  eloquent  exponents  had  im- 
pressed and  filled  her  soul  with  the  blessed  truth  that  she  was 
beloved — beloved  to  her  heart's  infinite  content — beioved  by 
one  around  whom — softly  be  it  whispered — her  own  maiden 
fancies  had  hovered  in  pure  enthusiasm,  ever  since  the  morning 
upon  which  she  had  seen  him  before  Old  Field  Cottage,  and 
had  heard  from  the  mouths  of  others  the  relation  of  his  noble 
and  generous  deeds — the  high  eulogium  of  his  exalted  charac- 
ter. He  might  not  have  merited  such  unqualified  encomium — 
but  with  her  it  stood  as  truth.  And  up  to  the  time  of  his  first 
meeting  with  Marian,  Thurston  Willcoxen  in  thought  and 


332  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

deed  had  been  perfectly  blameless.  His  praises  were  still  the 
theme  of  the  aged  as  well  as  the  youthful.  In  the  wealth  of 
golden  opinions  he  was  fully  Marian's  equal. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  lovers  "  chanced"  to  meet  again — 
for  so  Thurston  would  still  have  had  it  appear  as  he  permitted 
Marian  to  overtake  him  in  the  forest  on  her  way  to  the  Sunday- 
school. 

She  was  blooming  and  beautiful  as  the  morning  itself  as  she 
approached.  He  turned  with  a  radiant  smile  to  greet  her. 

"  Welcome  !  thrice  welcome,  dearest  one !  your  coming  is 
more  joyous  than  that  of  day.  Welcome  my  own,  dear  Marian  ! 
May  I  now  call  you  mine  !  Have  I  read  that  angel-smile 
aright  ?  Is  it  the  blessed  herald  of  a  happy  answer  to  my 
prayer  ?"  he  whispered,  as  he  took  her  hand  and  passed  his 
arm  around  her  head,  and  brought  it  down  upon  his  bosom. 
"  Speak,  my  Marian  !  Speak,  my  beloved !  Are  you  ray 
own,  as  I  am  yours  ?" 

Her  answer  was  so  low-toned  that  he  had  to  bend  his  head 
down  close  to  her  lips  to  hear  her  murmur — 

"  I  love  you  dearly.  But  I  love  too  well  to  ruin  your  pros- 
pects. You  must  not  bind  yourself  to  me  just  yet,  dear  Thurs- 
ton," and  meekly  and  gently  she  sought  to  slip  from  his 
embrace. 

But  he  slid  his  arm  around  her  lightly,  bending  his  head 
and  whispering  eagerly, 

"  What  mean  you,  Marian  ?  Your  words  are  incomprehen- 
sible." 

"  Dear  Thnrston,"  she  answered,  in  a  tremulous  and  thrilling 
voice  ;  "  I  have  known  your  grandfather  long  by  report,  and  I 
am  well  aware  of  his  character  and  disposition  nnd  habits. 
But  only  yesterday  I  chanced  to  learn  from  one  who  was  well 
informed,  that  old  Mr.  Willcoxen  had  sworn  to  make  you  his 
heir  only  upon  condition  of  your  finding  a  bride  of  equal  or 
superior  fortunes.  If  now  you  were  to  engage  yourself  to  me, 
your  grandfather  would  disinherit  you.  I  love  you  too  well," 
she  murmured  very  low,  "  to  ruin  your  fortunes.  You  must 
not  bind  yourself  to  me  just  now,  Thurstou." 


FOREST      WALKS.  333 

And  this  loving,  frank,  and  generous  creature  was  the  wo- 
man,  he  thought,  whose  good  name  he  would  have  periled  in  a 
clandestine  courtship,  in  preference  to  losing  his  inheritance  bj 
an  open  betrothal.  A  stab  of  compunction  pierced  his  bosom  ; 
he  felt  that  he  loved  her  more  than  ever,  but  passion  was 
stronger  than  affection,  stronger  than  conscience,  stronger 
than  anything  in  nature,  except  pride  and  ambition.  He 
tightened  his  clasp  about  her  waist — he  bent  and  whispered, 

"  Beloved  Marian,  is  it  to  bind  me  only  that  you  hesitate  ?" 

"  Only  that,"  she  answered  softly. 

"  Now  hear  me,  Marian.  I  swear  before  Heaven,  and  in 
thy  sight — that — as  I  have  never  loved  woman  before  you — 
that — as  I  love  you  only  of  all  women — I  will  be  faithful  to 
you  while  I  live  upon  this  earth  !  as  your  husband,  if  you  wil' 
accept  me;  as  your  exclusive  lover  whether  you  will  or  not! 
1  hold  myself  pledged  to  you  as  long  as  we  both  shall  live  ! 
There,  Marian  !  I  am  bound  to  you  as  tight  as  vows  can  bind  ! 
I  am  pledged  to  you  whether  you  accept  my  pledge  or  not. 
You  cannot  even  release,  for  I  am  pledged  to  Heaven  as  well. 
There,  Marian,  you  see  I  am  bound,  while  you  only  are  free. 
Come !  be  generous !  You  have  said  that  you  loved  me ! 
pledge  yourself  to  me  in  like  manner.  We  are  both  young, 
dear  Marian,  and  we  can  wait.  Only  let  me  have  your  promise 
to  be  my  wife — only  let  me  have  that  blessed  assurance  for  the 
future,  and  I  can  endure  the  present.  Speak,  dear  Marian." 

"  Your  grandfather — " 

"He  has  no  grudge  against  you,  personally,  sweet  girl ;  he 
knows  nothing,  suspects  nothing  of  my  preferences  —  how 
should  he  ?  Xo,  dearest  girl — his  notion  that  I  must  have  a 
monied  bride,  is  the  merest  whim  of  dotage ;  we  must  forgive 
the  whims  of  ninety-five.  That  great  age  also  augurs  for  us  a 
short  engagement,  and  a  speedy  union  !" 

"  Oh  !  never  let  us  dream  of  that !  It  would  be  sinful,  and 
draw  down  upon  us  the  displeasure  of  Heaven.  Long  may  the 
old  man  yet  live  to  prepare  for  a  better  life. 

"  Amen  ;  so  be  it ;  God  forbid  that  I  should  grudge  the  aged 
21 


334  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

patriarch  his  few  remaining  days  upon  earth — days,  too,  Tipon 
which  his  soul's  immortal  welfare  may  depend,"  said  Thurston 
"  But,  dearest  girl,  it  is  more  difficult  to  get  a  reply  from  you, 
than  from  a  prime  minister.  Answer,  now,  once  for  all,  sweet 
girl  I  since  I  am  forever  bound  to  you  ;  will  you  pledge  yourself 
to  become  my  own  dear  wife  ?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  Marian,  very  lowly. 

"  And  will  you,"  he  asked,  gathering  her  form  closer  to  his 
bosom,  "  will  you  redeem  that  pledge  when  I  demand  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  sweetly,  "so  that  it  is  not  to  harm 
you,  or  bring  you  into  trouble  or  poverty  ;  for  that  I  would  not 
consent  to  do  !" 

"  God  bless  you ;  you  are  an  angel !  Oh  !  Marian  !  I  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  sigh  because  I  am  so  unworthy  of  you  !" 

And  this  was  spoken  most  sincerely. 

You  think  too  well  of  me.     I  fear — I  fear  for  the  conse- 
quences." 

"  Why,  dearest  Marian  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  fear  that  when  you  know  me  better  you  may  love  me 
jess,"  she  answered,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Why  should  I  ?" 

"  Oh  !  because  your  love  may  have  been  attracted  by  ideal 
qualities,  with  which  you  yourself  have  invested  me  ;  and  when 
your  eyes  are  opened  you  may  love  me  less." 

"  May  my  soul  forever  perish  the  day  that  I  cease  to  love 
you  !"  said  Thurston,  passionately  pressing  her  to  his  heart, 
and  sealing  his  fearful  oath  upon  her  pure  brow  and  guileless 
lips.  And  now,  beloved  !  this  compact  is  sealed  !  Our  fates 
are  united  forever  !  Henceforth  nothing  shall  dissever  us  1" 

They  were  now  drawing  near  the  village. 

Marian  suddenly  stopped. 

"Dear  Thurston,"  she  said,  "if  you  are  seen  waiting  .ipon 
me  to  church,  do  you  know  what  the  people  will  say  ?  They 
will  say  that  Marian  has  a  new  admirer  in  Mr.  Willcoxen — and 
that  will  reach  your  grandfather's  ears,  and  give  you  trouble.'' 

"  And  wherefore  should  we  care  ?     I  should  be  a  wretch 


FOREST      WALKS.  335 

Marian,"  he  said,  with  a  sense  of  bitter  self-scorning — "I 
should  be  a  wretch  to  weigh  your  claims  iu  the  scale  with  my 
interest  with  that  old  man  1" 

"  It  is  1  who  weigh  them  for  you,"  said  Marian  ;  "  I  am  re- 
solved that  you  shall  not  risk  your  interest  for  my  sake." 

"  Nay,  I  will  lay  them  at  your  feet  or  lose  them  altogether 
for  you  !" 

"A  truce  to  vain  words,  dear  Thurston.  I  myself,  then,  if  I 
must  say  it,  prefer  that  there  should  be  no  ground  for  idle 
gossip  about  us.  I  confess,  that  I  am  very  sensitive  to  those 
things — so  sensitive,  that  bad  I  known  you  would  have  been 
in  the  woods  to-day,  I  should  have  taken  some  other  road  to 
church." 

"You  would?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  would  !" 

"  I  shall  remember  that!"  thought  he. 

"  I  must  hasten  onward,  to  be  in  time  for  my  class  in  the 
Sunday  school.  You  have  time  to  follow  on  at  your  leisure, 
since  you  have  no  duties  awaiting  you.  Good-morning,  dear 
Thurston." 

"Stay!  one  moment,  beautiful  Marian!  When  shall  we 
meet  again  ?" 

"When  Heaven  wills." 

"  And  when  will  that  be,  fairest  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  but  do  not  visit  me  at  the  cottage,  dear 
Thurstou,  it  would  be  indiscreet." 

"  Marian !  I  must  see  you  often.  Will  you  meet  me  on  the 
beach  to-morrow  afternoon  ?" 

Marian's  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  the  ground  —  she  now 
raised  them,  and  with  an  expression  of  surprise  and  trouble, 
looked  in  his  face. 

"  Have  you  «o  misapprehended  me  !"  she  said,  sadly.  "  Listen 
to  me,  dear  Thurston.  I  have  consented  to  this  secret  engage- 
ment because  it  appears  to  me,  under  the  exceptional  circum- 
stances, to  be  at  least  uot  wrong.  I  have  neither  parent  nor 
guardian,  patron  uor  benefactor,  to  whom  I  might  be  supposed 


3-%  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

to  owe  the  duty  of  obedience.  I  have  no  authority  over  me  save 
that  of  God.  And  therefore  I  have  the  perfect  right  to  do  as  I 
please,  always  supposing  that  I  '  please  to  do  right'  And  as 
for  yourself,  you  are  of  age,  and  should  have  the  same  freedom, 
under  the  same  condition  of  right  doing.  Your  grandfather's 
attempt  to  compel  your  choice  of  a  wealthy  bride  before  a 
loved  one,  I  consider  an  unjustifiable  stretch  of  authority.  He 
has  unfortunately  the  legal  power  of  disinheriting  you,  though 
he  certainly  has  not  the  moral  right  of  doing  so.  The  landed 
estate  especially,  which  he  inherited  from  his  forefathers,  he 
should  transmit  to  his  children — it  is  their  right — it  is  your 
right.  So  I  have  considered  this  matter,  dear  Thurston,  and 
therefore  I  have  consented  to  this  secret  engagement ;  that  you 
may  not  lose  your  inheritance,  and  may  rest  assured  of  the  love 
of  your  betrothed,  who  will  wait  for  you  years  if  necessary. 
Dear  Thurston,  do  you  now  understand  the  motives  of  my  con- 
duct ?  And  do  you  see  that  I  would  do  no  wrong  ?" 

"  Would  it  be  wrong  to  give  a  little  of  your  company,  in  a 
seaside  stroll,  to  me,  to  whom  you  have  just  plighted  your 
faith  ?*' 

"Yes,"  said  Marian,  gravely,  "it  would  be  wrong." 

"  Which  of  the.  commandments  of  God,  fair  saint,  would  it 
break  ?" 

"  None,  perhaps,  from  beginning  to  end,  yet  my  conscience 
assures  me  that  it  would  be  wrong.  'All  things  are  lawful  for 
me,  but  all  things  are  not  expedient,'  says  St.  Paul." 

"  Aye,  beautiful  theologian  !  but  hear  what  Paul's  Master 
said — '  Be  not  righteous  over  much."1  Now  are  you  righteous 
over  much  ?" 

Thurston  was  certainly  the  best  logician  of  the  two,  and 
Marian  felt  it.  Yet  tapping  her  hand  upon  her  bosom  thought- 
fully she  said  : 

"  If  there  is  any  discrepancy  between  the  teachings  of 
Christ  and  His  servant  Paul,  I  have  not  observed  it,  and  I  do 
not  believe  it  really  to  exist.  I  believe  Christ  would  cu-dorse  the 
words  of  Paul,  '  All  things  are  lawful  unto  me,  but  all  things 


FOREST      WALKS.  387 

edify  not.'  Xow,  dear  Thnrston,  I  do  not  think  it  would 
'  edify  '  the  young  girls  of  ray  Sunday  school  to  discover  that  I 
held  secret  meetings,  and  took  solitary  strolls  with  a  gentleman 
not  known  to  be  betrothed  to  me.  And  hear  me  farther,  dear- 
est Thurston,  and  do  not  look  so  displeased.  It  has  pleased 
Heaven  to  make  me  useful  in  this  neighborhood.  And  to 
lighten  my  labors  and  make  them  pleasant  to  me,  nature  ha<» 
given  me  some  love  of  approbation,  and  some  general,  social 
affections  and  enjoyments.  And  to  increase  my  usefulness  to 
His  creatures,  the  Lord  has  caused  me  to  find  much  favor  in 
the  sight  of  men.  Now  were  I  to  take  these  lonely  strolls 
with  you,  pleasant  and  harmless  in  themselves  though  they 
might  be,  I  should  endanger  the  confidence  of  the  community  ia 
me,  and  my  own  usefulness  to  them.  Therefore,  dearest  Thurston, 
though  it  would  give  me  the  sweetest  pleasure  to  stroll  with 
you  on  the  sea-shore  to-morrow  evening,  and  frequently  after- 
wards; yet  I  must  not  do  so,  neither  to-morrow  nor  ever,  until 
our  engagement  can  be  admitted." 

Thurston  looked  deeply  mortified  and  angry. 

"When  I  heard  you  lauded  to  the  very  sky,  I  asked  myself 
how  was  it  possible  that  a  human  creature  could  be  so  fault- 
less as  you  were  represented.  I  find  now  that  they  were  mis- 
taken. You  are  not  faultless;  you  have  pride  and  worldliness  ! 
Yes,  sweet  saint !  You  love  the  good  word  of  the  world,  as 
well  as  the  most  frivolous  woman  of  society,  or  the  most  phari- 
saical  priest  of  the  synagogue !"  he  exclaimed,  bitterly. 

Marian  paused  in  thought. 

"  It  may  be  true,"  she  answered,  meekly;  "no  one  ever  told 
rae  so  before  ;  but  it  may  be  that  I  do  set  too  high  a  value  upon 
the  opinion  of  society.  If  I  do,  God  cleanse  me  of  the  sin !" 

"  Cleanse  thou  thyself  of  worldliness !  Do  not  fear  to  fol- 
low the  dictates  of  }^our  affections,  when  they  transgress  no  law 
of  God's.  Do  not  shun  me  like  a  self-righteous,  worldly-wise, 
professor ;  but  meet  me  like  a  really  religious  and  loving  wo- 
man," said  Tburston,  earnestly,  taking  her  hand,  and  gazing 
iuto  her  eyes 


838  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"No,"  answered  Marian,  gravely,  "in  this  single  instance,  I 
must  not  meet  you,  though  my  heart  pleads  like  a  sick  child 
with  me,  to  do  it.  Thurst-on,  dear  Thurston." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  as  she  spoke,  and  giving  way  to  a 
sudden  impulse,  dropped  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  put  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  and  embraced  him.  And  then  his  better 
angel  rose  above  the  storm  of  passion  that  was  surging  through 
his  veins,  and  calmed  the  tumult,  and  spoke  through  his  lips. 

"  You  are  right,  Marian — fairest  and  dearest,  you  are  right. 
And  I  not  only  love  you  best  of  all  women,  but  honor  you 
more  than  all  men.  It  shall  be  as  you  have  said.  I  will  not 
seek  you  anywhere.  As  the  mother,  dying  of  plague,  de- 
nies herself  the  parting  embrace  of  her  'uustricken'  child — 
so,  for  your  sake,  will  I  refraiu  from  the  heaven  of  your  pre- 
sence." 

"And,  dear  Thurston,"  she  said,  raising  her  head,  "it  will 
not  be  so  hard  to  bear,  as  you  now  think.  "We  shall  see  each 
other  every  Sunday,  in  the  church,  and  every  Monday  in  the 
lecture-room.  We  shall  often  be  of  the  same  invited  company 
at  neighbor's  houses.  Remember,  also,  that  Christmas  u 
coming,  with  its  protracted  festivities,  when  we  shall  see  each 
other  almost  every  evening,  at  some  little  neighborhood  gather- 
ing. And  now  I  must  really  hurry ;  oh !  how  late  I  am  this 
morning !  Good-bye,  dearest  Thurston  !" 

"Good-bye,  my  own  Marian." 

Blushingly  she  received  his  parting  kiss,  and  hurried  along 
the  little  foot-path  leading  to  the  village. 

lie  had  no  farther  opportunity  of  speaking  with  Marian  that 
day.  And  when  the  afternoon  service  was  over,  Miss  Thorn- 
ton, the  sister  of  Colonel  Thornton,  having  discovered  that 
Marian  had  walked  to  church,  offered  her  a  seat  in  her  carriage, 
and  made  a  little  detour  on  her  way  home,  in  order  to  set  her 
down  at  Old  Field  Cottage.  The  next  evening,  at  the  lecture- 
room,  Thurston  saw  Marian  again,  and  again  drew  strength  and 
inspiration  from  her  presence.  But  when  the  lecture  was  closed, 
she  was  among  the  first  to  depart.  And  he  failed  in  his  en- 
deavor to  get  near  and  speak  to  her 


FOREST      WALKS.  339 

Thurston  had  been  perfectly  sincere  in  his  resolution  not  to 
sock  a  private  interview  with  Marian  ;  and  he  kept  it  faithfully 
all  the  week,  with  less  temptation  to  break  it,  because  he  did 
not  know  where  to  watch  for  her. 

Bu*  Sunday  came  again — and  Thurston,  with  a  little  bit  of 
human  self-deception  and  finesse,  avoided  the  forest  path,  where 
he  had  met  her  the  preceding  Sabbath,  and  saying  to  himself, 
that  he  would  not  waylay  her,  took  the  river  road,  refusing  to 
confess  even  to  himself  that  he  acted  upon  the  calculation  that 
she  also  would  take  the  same  road,  in  order  to  avoid  meeting 
him  in  the  forest. 

His  "calculus  of  probabilities"  had  not  failed  him.  He  had 
not.  walked  far  upon  the  forest  shaded  banks  of  the  river,  before 
he  saw  Marian  walking  before  him.  He  hastened  and  over- 
took her. 

At  lirst  seeing  him,  her  face  flushed  radiant  with  surprise  and 
joy.  She  seemed  to  think  that  nothing  short  of  necromancy 
could  have  conjured  him  to  that  spot.  She  had  no  reproaches 
for  him,  because  she  had  no  suspicion  that  he  had  trifled  with 
his  promise  not  to  seek  her.  But  she  expressed  her  astonish- 
ment. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  ever  came  this  way,"  she  said. 

"  Nor  did  I  ever  before,  love ;  but  I  remembered  my  pledge, 
not  to  follow  or  to  seek  you,  and  so  I  avoided  the  woodland 
path  where  we  met  last  Sunday,"  said  Thurston,  persuading 
himself  that  he  spoke  the  precise  truth. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  pursue  with  them  this  walk ;  lovers 
scarcely  thank  us  for  such  intrusions.  It  is  sufficient  to  say, 
that  this  was  not  the  last  one. 

Blinded  by  passion  and  self-deception,  and  acting  upon  the 
same  astute  calculus  of  probabilities,  Thurston  often  contrived 
to  meet  Marian  in  places  where  his  presence  might  be  least  ex- 
pected, and  most  often  in  paths  that  she  had  taken  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  keeping  out  of  his  waj. 

Thus  it  fell,  that  many  forest  walks  and  seashore  strolls  were 
taken,  all  through  the  lovely  Indian  Summer  weather.  And 


340  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

these  seemed  so  much  the  result  of  pure  accident,  that  Marian 
never  dreamed  of  complaining  that  his  pledge  had  been  tam- 
pered with. 

But  Thurston  began  to  urge  her  consent  to  a  private  mar- 
riage. 

From  a  secret  engagement  to  a  secret  marriage,  the  transition 
seemed  to  him  very  easy. 

"And,  dearest  Marian,  we  are  both  of  age,  both  free — we 
should  neither  displease  God  nor  wrong  man,  by  such  a  step — 
while  it  would  at  the  same  time  secure  our  union,  and  save  us 
from  injustice  and  oppression  !  do  you  not  see  ?" 

Such  was  his  argument,  which  he  pleaded  and  enforced  with 
all  the  powers  of  passion  and  eloquence.  In  vain.  Though 
every  interview  increased  his  power  over  the  maiden — though 
her  affections  and  her  will  were  both  subjected,  the  domain  of 
conscience  was  unconquered.  And  Marian  still  answered, 

"  Though  a  secret  marriage  would  break  no  law  of  God  or 
man,  nor  positively  wrong  any  human  creature,  yet  it  might  be 
the  cause  of  misunderstanding  and  suspicion — and  perhaps 
calumny,  causing  much  distress  to  those  who  love  and  respect 
me.  Therefore  it  would  be  wrong.  And  I  must  do  no  wrong, 
even  for  your  dear  sake." 

Alas,  Marian!  The  only  way  to  have  prevented  all  the 
wrong  and  misery,  would  have  been  to  break  off  at  once.  If 
there  is  any  reason  on  earth  why  two  who  love  as  lovers  cannot 
marry,  let  the  wrench  come  that  parts  them  forever ;  it  may  be 
passing  bitter — terrible — but  it  is  better  than  the  long  heart- 
wasting  of  any  other  course. 

So,  through  all  the  glorious  autumnal  weather,  and  through 
all  the  golden,  hazy  Indian  Summer,  their  walks  were  continued 
— through  the  deep  forest,  by  the  lonely  sea-shore,  over  the 
sunny  hills,  down  the  shady  dells — the  woods,  the  streams,  tho 
fields,  their  only  confidants. 

At  last  the  weather  changed — the  gloomy  skies  and  heavy 
Tains  of  early  winter  came  on,  and  the  same  inclement  season 
that  confined  Commodore  Waugh's  obstreperous  violence  within 


FOREST      WALKS.  341 

the  four  walls  of  his  bed-chamber,  aud  put  a  temporary  stop  to 
the  works  at  Luckenough,  also  interrupted  the  perilous  pleasure 
of  those  woodland  and  water-side  rambles. 

Even  the  lectures  failed  to  draw  people  through  the  rain  and 
mud  of  December,  and  the  church  itself  was  thinly  attended. 

Thurston  was  faithfully  at  his  post  each  Monday  evening, 
though  there  might  be  no  one  but  the  professors,  college  boys, 
and  villagers  for  his  audience.  He  was  also  an  indefatigable 
attendant  upon  church,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Marian.  But  she 
did  not  appear  either  at  church  or  lecture,  and  Thurston  in- 
veighed against  the  continued  bad  weather,  and  fell  into  gloom 
and  despondency,  from  which  neither  the  quaint  pranks  and 
wild  caroling  of  Fanny,  nor  the  near  approach  of  Merry 
Christmas  could  for  a  moment  arouse  him.  As  Christmas  ap- 
proached, the  weather  became  still  worse — from  inclement  it 
became  tempestuous.  The  rain  changed  to  snow — and  the 
snow-storm  raged  three  days. 


CHAPTER   XXYI 

CLOUDY. 

u  Oh !  my  cousin,  Rhallow-heartecl !    Oh !  my  '  Lina,'  mine  no  more ! 

raiser  than  all  fancy  fathoms!  falser  than  all  pongs  have  sung1 

Puppet  to  a  guardian's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue !" — Tennysmt. 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  ground  lay  two  feet  deep 
ULder  the  snow,  and  the  snow-storm  was  still  raging. 

Old  Mr.  Willcoxen  sat  half  doubled  up  in  his  leather-covered 
elbow  chair,  in  the  chimney  corner  of  his  bed-room,  occupied 
with  smoking  his  clay  pipe,  and  thinking  about  his  money  bags. 

Fauny  was  in  the  cold,  bleak  upper  rooms  of  the  house,  look- 


842  THE      MISSING       BRIDE. 

intr  out  of  the  windows  upon  the  wide  desolation  of  winter,  the 
waste  of  snow,  the  bare  forest,  the  cold,  dark  waters  of  the  bay 
— listening  to  the  driving  tempest,  and  singing,  full  of  glee  us 
she  always  was,  when  the  elements  were  in  an  uproar. 

Thurston  was  the  sole  and  surly  occupant  of  the  sitting-room, 
where  he  had  thrown  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  sofa,  to  lie 
and  yawn  over  the  newspaper,  which  he  vowed  was  as  stale  as 
last  year's  almanac. 

Suddenly  the  front  door  was  thrown  open,  and  some  one 
came,  followed  by  the  driving  wind  and  snow,  into  the  hall. 

Thurston  threw  aside  his  paper,  started  up,  and  went  out. 

What  was  his  surprise  to  see  Cloudesley  Mornington  standing 
there,  with  a  face  so  haggard,  with  eyes  so  wild  and  despairing, 
that,  in  alarm,  he  exclaimed, 

"Good  Heaven,  Cloudesley.  What  is  the  matter?  Has 
anything  happened  at  home  ?" 

"  Home  !  home  !  What  home  ?  I  have  no  home  upon  this 
earth  now,  and  never  shall  have !"  exclaimed  the  poor  youth 
distractedly. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  never  speak  so  despondently.  What  is  it 
now  ?  a  difficulty  with  the  Commodore  ?" 

"  God's  judgment  light  upon  him  !"  cried  Cloudy,  pushing 
past  and  hurrying  up  the  stairs. 

"  '  T  never  was  a  favorite — my  uncle  never  smiled  on  me  with 
half  the  fondness  that  blessed  the  other  child,'  yet  I  would  not 
have  cursed  him  so,"  said  Thurston,  as  he  returned  to  the 
sitting-room,  threw  himself  down  upon  the  settee  and  took  up 
his  newspaper. 

But  he  could  not  resume  his  former  composure  ;  something 
in  Cloudy's  face  had  left  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  in  his  mind, 
and  the  oftener  he  recalled  the  expression  the  more  troubled  he 
became. 

Until  at  length  he  could  bear  the  anxiety  no  longer,  and 
quietly  leaving  his  room,  he  went  up  stairs  in  search  of  the 
youth,  and  paused  before  the  bov's  door.  By  the  clicking, 
metallic  sounds  within,  he  suspected  him  to  be  engaged  in  load- 


CLOUDY.  343 

ing  a  pistol ;  for  what  purpose !  Not  an  instant  was  to  be 
risked  in  rapping  or  questioning. 

With  one  vigorous  blow  of  his  heel,  Thurston  burst  open  the 
door,  and  sprung  forward  and  dashed  the  fatal  weapon  from  his 
hand,  and  then  confronted  him,  exclaiming, 

"  Good  God,  Cloudy !     What  does  this  mean  ?" 

Cloudy  looked  at  him  wildly  for  a  minute,  and  when 
Thurston  repeated  the  question,  he  answered  with  a  hollow 
luugh, 

"  That  I  am  crazy,  I  guess  !  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Cloudy,  my  dear  fellow,  we  have  been  like  brothers  all  our 
lives;  now  wont  you  tell  me  what  has  brought  you  to  this 
pass  ?  What  troubles  you  so  much  ?  Perhaps  I  can  aid  you 
in  some  way.  Come,  what  is  it  now  ?" 

"  And  you  really  don't  know  what  it  is  ?  Don't  you  know 
that  there  is  a  wedding  on  hand  ?" 

"  A  wedding !" 

"  Aye,  man  alive  !  A  wedding  !  They  are  going  to  marry 
the  child  Jacquelina,  who  is  scarcely  out  of  her  short  frocks  and 
pantalettes,  to  old  Grimshaw." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  that;  but,  my  dear  boy,  what  of  it? 
Surely  you  were  never  in  love  with  little  Jacko  ?" 

"  In  love  with  her  !  ha  !  ha  !  no,  not  as  you  understand  it ! 
who  take  it  to  be  that  fantastical  passion  that  may  be  inspired 
by  the  first  sight  of  a  pretty  face.  No  !  I  am  not  in  love  with 
her,  unless  I  could  be  in  love  with  myself.  For  Lina  was  my 
other  self.  Oh,  you  who  can  talk  so  glibly  of  being  '  in  love,' 
little  know  that  strength  of  attachment  when  two  hearts  have 
grown  together  from  childhood." 

"  It  is  like  a  brother's  and  a  sister's." 

"Never!  brothers  and  sisters  cannot  love  so.  What  brother 
ever  loved  a  sister  as  I  hare  loved  Lina  from  our  infancy. 
What  brother  ever  would  have  done  and  suffered  as  much  for 
nis  sister  as  I  have  for  Lina  ?" 

"  You  !  done  and  suffered  for  Lina!"  said  Thurston,  begin- 
ning to  think  he  was  really  mad. 


S44  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Yes  !  how  many  faults  as  a  boy  I  have  shouldered  for  her. 
How  many  floggings  I  have  taken.  How  many  shames  I  have 
borne  for  her,  which  she  never  knew.  Yes !  faults  that  in  a 
little,  tiny  girl  were  almost  excusable,  but  in  a  boy  were  mean 
and  dishonorable,  I  have  a  thousand  times  allowed  to  be  laid  to 
my  charge,  and  borne  the  pain  and  the  shame  of  the  punish- 
ment, rather  than  have  her  so  much  as  slightly  blamed  ;  and 
she  never  knew  it.  How  I  loved  her.  That  was  in  onr  school 
days.  Oh,  even  then  !  when  I  would  go  to  school  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  first  one  I  would  seek  out  in  the  play-ground  would  be 
her.  But  most  of  the  time  I  was  late,  because  grandfather  kept 
me  at  work  like  a  slave  in  the  morning,  just'  allowing  me  time 
to  get  to  school.  And  if  the  school  was  in,  the  first  thing  I'd 
do  when  I'd  get  into  the  passage,  would  be  to  look  up  at  the 
row  of  girls'  bonnets  hanging  there,  to  see  if  her  little  hood 
was  among  them.  If  it  was,  my  heart  bounded  like  a  barque — 
if  it  were  not,  it  sank  like  a  plummet.  And  when  I  went  in 
and  missed  her  from  her  little  bench,  I  looked  oftener  at  the 
door  than  at  the  page  of  my  book,  until  she  came.  Poor  Lina. 
Thurston,  the  little  wild  thing  was  almost  always  at  the  foot  of 
the  class,  and  if  I  happened  to  be  at  the  head,  I  would  let  three 
or  four  boys  and  girls  get  above  me,  that  I  might  fall  next  to 
her.  For  two  reasons,  Thurston  !  to  keep  any  other  boy  from 
standing  next  to  her,  and  also  to  keep  her  in  countenance.  And 
since  the  school-days,  all  my  thoughts,  all  my  dreams,  all  my 
ambitions,  have  been  for  her — her  society,  her  pleasure,  her 
good  !  Oh  !  how  I  have  spent  my  night  watches  at  sea,  dream- 
ing of  her.  For  years  I  have  been  saving  up  all  my  money  to 
buy  a  pretty  cottage  for  her  and  her  mother  that  she  loves  so 
well.  I  meant  to  have  bought  or  built  one  this  very  year. 
And  after  having  made  the  pretty  nest,  to  have  wooed  my 
pretty  bird  to  come  and  occupy  it.  I  meant  to  have  been  such 
a  good  boy  to  her  mother,  too  !  I  pleased  myself  with  fancy- 
ing how  the  poor  little  timorous  woman  would  rest  in  so  muct 
peace  and  confidence  in  our  home — with  me  and  Lina.  I  have 
saved  so  much  that  I  am  richer  than  any  one  knows,  and  1 


CLOUDY.  345 

to  have  accomplished  all  that  this  very  time  of  coining  home. 
1  hurried  home.  I  reached  the  house.  I  ran  in  like  a  wild  boy 
as  I  was.  Her  voice  called  me.  I  followed  its  sound — ran  up 
stairs  to  her  room.  I  found  her  in  bed.  I  thought  she  was 
sick.  But  she  sprang  up,  and  threw  herself  upon  my  bosom, 
and  with  her  arms  clasped  about  my  neck,  wept  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  And  while  I  wondered  what  the  matter  could 
be,  her  mother  interfered  and  told  me.  God's  judgment  light 
upon  them  all,  I  say  I  Oh  !  it  was  worse  than  murder  It 
was  a  horrid,  horrid  crime,  that  has  no  name  because  there  is 
none  heinous  enough  for  it !  Thurston  1  I  acted  like  a  very 
brute  !  God  help  me,  I  was  both  stunned  and  maddened,  as  it 
seems  to  me  now.  For  I  could  not  speak.  I  tore  her  little, 
fragile,  clinging  arms  from  off  my  neck,  and  thrust  her  from  me. 
And  here  I  am." 

"  Were  you  engaged  ?" 

"  Engaged  ?  Yes  1  that  is  to  say,  I  thought  we  were  !  but  it 
appears  that  /was  engaged,  and  she  was  not !  ha  !  ha  1" 

"  You  engaged,  and  she  not  ?" 

"Yes!  It  was  a  funny  engagement !  quite  a  unique  one! 
I  daresay  jrou  never  heard  of  such  a  one  in  your  life,"  exclaimed 
Cloudy,  laughing  in  a  wild,  insane  manner.  "  You  shall  hear," 
he  continued,  seeing  that  Thurston's  countenance  expressed 
doubt  and  perplexity.  "  Oh,  yon  shall  hear  1  Yes,  it  was  a 
funny  betrothal !  And  the  proposal  came  from  the  other  party  ? 
ha  !  ha  !  curious,  wasn't  it  ?" 

Thurston  regarded  him  with  painful  sympathy. 

Cloudy  pushed  up  the  hair  from  his  burning  forehead,  and 
related  the  story. 

"  There  !  that  was  our  engagement !  Don't  ask  me  how  1 
loved  her!  I  have  no  words  to  tell  you  I" 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE     FAIRY     BRIDE. 

«  And  the  little  lady  grew  silent  and  thin, 

Paling,  and  ever  paHng, 
As  is  the  way  with  a  hid  chagrin, 
And  they  all  perceived  she  was  ailing." — Browning. 

SKVCE  the  morning  of  her  ill-starred  marriage,  Sans  Souci 
had  waned  like  a  waning  moon  ;  and  the  bridegroom  saw,  with 
dismay,  his  fairy  bride  slowly  fading,  passing,  vanishing  from 
his  sight.  There  was  no  very  marked  disorder,  no  visible  or 
tangible  symptoms  to  guide  the  physicians,  who  were  in  suc- 
cession summoned  to  her  relief.  Very  obscure  is  the  pathology 
of  a  wasting  heart,  very  occult  the  scientific  knowledge  that  can 
search  out  the  secret  sickness,  which,  the  farther  it  is  sought, 
shrinks  the  deeper  from  sight. 

Once,  indeed,  while  she  was  sitting  with  her  aunt  and  uncle, 
the  latter  suddenly  and  rudely  mentioned  Cloudy's  name,  say- 
ing that  "  the  fool  "  was  sulking  over  at  Dell-Delight ;  that  he 
believed  he  would  have  blown  his  brains  out  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Thurston,  and  for  his  own  part,  he  almost  wished  that  he 
had  been  permitted  to  do  so,  because  he  thought  none  but  a 
fool  would  ever  commit  suicide,  and  the  fewer  fools  there  were 
in  the  world  the  better,  &c.  &c.  His  monologue  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  Henrietta's  rushing  forward  to  lift  up  Sans  Souci, 
who  had  turned  very  pale,  and  dropped  from  her  seat  to  the 
floor,  where  she  lay  silently  quivering  and  gasping,  like  some 
poor  wounded  and  dying  bird. 

They  tacitly  resolved,  from  this  time  forth,  never  to  name 
Cloudy  in  her  presence  again. 

And  the  Commodore  struck  his  heavy  stick  upon  the  floor, 
and  emphatically  thanked  God  that  Nace  Grirashaw  had  not 
been  present  to  witness  her  agitation  and  its  cause. 
(346) 


r  II  E      FAIRY      BRIDE.  347 

And  Jacqnelina  waned  and  waned.  And  the  physicians, 
wearied  out  with  her  case,  prescribed  "  Change  of  air  and 
scene — pleasant  company — cheerful  amusement — excitement," 
&c.  A  winter  in  Washington  was  suggested.  And  the  littlo 
invalid  was  consulted  as  to  her  wishes  upon  the  subject.  "Yes." 
Jacquelina  said  she  would  go — anywhere,  if  only  her  aunty  and 
Marian  would  go  with  her — she  wanted  Marian. 

Mrs.  Waugh  readily  consented  to  accompany  her  favorite, 
and  also  to  try  to  induce  "  Hebe,"  as  she  called  blooming 
Marian,  to  make  one  of  their  party. 

And  the  very  first  day  that  the  weather  and  the  roads  would 
admit  of  traveling,  Mrs.  "Waugh  rode  over  to  Old  Fields  to 
see  Marian,  and  talk  with  her  about  the  contemplated  journey. 

The  proposition  took  the  young  lady  by  surprise;  there  were 
several  little  lets  and  hindrances  to  her  immediate  acceptance 
of  the  invitation,  which  might,  however,  be  disposed  of;  and, 
finally,  Marian  begged  a  day  to  consider  of  it.  With  this 
answer,  Mrs.  Waugh  was  forced  to  be  content,  and  she  took 
her  leave,  saying, 

"  Remember,  Hebe  !  that  I  think  your  society  and  conver- 
sation more  needful,  and  likely  to  be  more  beneficial  to  poor 
Lapwing,  than  anything  else  we  can  procure  for  her  ;  therefore, 
pray  decide  to  go  with  us,  if  possible." 

Marian  deprecated  such  reliance  upon  her  imperfect  abilities, 
but  expressed  her  strong  desire  to  do  all  the  good  she  possibly 
could  effect  for  the  invalid,  and  made  little  doubt  but  that  she 
should  at  the  least  be  able  to  attend  her.  So,  with  this  hope, 
Mrs.  Waugh  kissed  her  and  departed. 

Tho  very  truth  was,  that  Marian  wished  to  see  and  consult 
her  betrothed  before  consenting  to  leave  home  for  what  seemed 
to  her  to  be  so  long  a  journey,  and  for  so  long  a  period.  lu  fact, 
Marian  was  not  now  a  free  agent;  she  had  suffered  her  free 
will  to  slip  from  her  own  possession  into  that  of  Thurston. 

She  had  not  seen  him  all  the  wretched  weather,  and  her  heart 
now  yearned  for  his  presence.  And  that  very  afternoon  Marian 
bad  a  most  pressing  errand  to  Charlotte  Hall,  to  purchase  gro- 


S48  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ceries,  which  the  little  family  had  got  entirely  oat  of,  daring  tho 
continuance  of  the  snow. 

There  was  no  certainty  that  she  should  see  Thurston  ;  still 
she  hoped  to  do  so,  nor  was  her  hope  disappointed. 

He  overtook  her  a  short  distance  from  the  village,  on  her 
road  home. 

Their  meeting  was  a  very  glad  one — heart  sprang  to  heart 
and  hand  to  hand — and  neither  affected  to  conceal  the  pleasure 
that  it  gave  them.  After  the  first  joyous  greetings,  and  the 
first  earnest  and  affectionate  inquiries  about  each  other's  health 
and  welfare,  both  became  grave  and  silent  for  a  little  while. 
Marian  was  reflecting  how  to  propose  to  leave  him  for  a  three 
months'  visit  to  the  gay  capitol,  little  thinking  that  Thurston 
himself  was  perplexed  with  the  question  of  how  to  break  to 
her  the  news  of  the  necessity  of  his  own  immediate  departure 
to  England  for  an  absence  of  at  least  six  or  eight  months. 
Marian  spoke  first. 

"  Dear  Thurston,  I  have  something  to  propose  to  yon,  that  I 
fear  you  will  not  like  very  well ;  but  if  you  do  not,  speak  freely ; 
for  I  am  not  bound." 

"I — I  do  not  understand  you,  love  !  Pray  explain  at  once," 
said  he.  quick  to  take  alarm  where  she  was  concerned. 

"You  know  poor  little  Jacqueliua  has  fallen  into  very  bad 
health  and  spirits?  Well,  her  physicians  recommend  change  of 
airland  scene,  and  her  friends  have  decided  to  take  her  to 
Washington  to  pass  the  remainder  of  the  winter.  And  the 
little  creature  has  set  her  sickly  fancy  upon  having  me  to  go 
with  her.  Now,  I  think  it  in  some  sort  a  duty  to  go,  and  I 
would  not  willingly  refuse.  Nevertheless,  dear  Thnrston,  I 
dread  to  leave  you,  and  if  you  think  you  will  be  very  lonesome 
this  winter  without  me — if  yon  are  likely  to  miss  me  one-half 
as  much  as  I  have  missed  you  these  last  three  weeks,  I  will  not 
leave  you  at  all."  *r- 

He  put  his  hand  out  and  took  hers,  and  pressed  it,  and  would 
have  carried  it  to  his  lips,  but  her  wicked  little  pony  suddenly 
jerked  away. 


THE      FAIRY      BRIDE.  349 

•'  My  own,  dearest  Marian,"  he  said,  "  my  frank,  generous 
love !  if  I  were  going  to  remain  in  this  neighborhood  this  win- 
ter, no  consideration,  I  fear,  for  others'  good,  would  induce  me 
to  consent  to  part  with  you." 

It  was  now  Marian's  turn  to  change  color,  and  falter  in  her 
tones,  as  she  asked, 

"  You — you  are  not  going  away  ?" 

'  Sweet  Marian,  yes !  A  duty — a  necessity  too  imperative  to 
be  denied,  summons  me." 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face  in  painful  anxiety. 

"  I  will  explain.  You  have  heard,  dear  Marian,  that  after 
my  father's  death  my  mother  married  a  second  time  ?" 

"  Xo — I  never  heard  of  it." 

"  She  did,  however — her  second  husband  was  a  Scotchman. 
She  lived  with  him  seven  years,  and  then  died,  leaving  him  one 
child,  a  boy  six  years  of  age.  After  my  mother's  death,  my 
stepfather  returned  to  Scotland,  taking  with  him  my  half-bro- 
ther, and  leaving  me  with  my  grandfather.  And  all  communi- 
cation gradually  ceased  between  us.  Within  this  week,  however, 
I  have  received  letters  from  Edinburg,  informing  me  of  the 
death  of  my  stepfather,  and  the  perfect  destitution  of  my  half- 
brother,  now  a  lad  of  twelve  years  of  age.  He  is  at  present 
staying  with  the  clergyman  who  attended  his  father  in  his  last 
illness,  and  who  has  written  me  the  letters  giving  me  the  infor- 
mation that  I  now  give  you.  Thus  you  see,  my  dearest  loVe, 
how  urgent  the  duty  is  that  takes  me  from  your  side.  Yet — 
What !  tears,  my  Marian  !  Ah,  if  so  !  let  my  dearest  one  but 
say  the  word,  and  I  will  not  leave  her.  I  will  send  money  over 
to  the  lad  instead." 

"  No,  no !  Ah  !  no,  never  trust  your  mother's  orphan  boy 
to  strangers,  or  to  his  own  guidance.  Go  for  the  poor,  deso- 
late lad,  and  never  leave  him,  or  suffer  him  to  leave  you.  I 
kr-ow  what  orphanage  in  childhood  is,  dear  Thurston,  and  so 
must  you.  Bring  the  boy  home.  And  if  he  lives  with  you,  I 
will  do  all  I  can  to  supply  his  mother's  place." 

"  Dear  girl !  dear,  dear  Marian,  my  heart  so  longs  to  press 


850  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

you  to  itself.  A  plague  upon  these  horses  that  keep  us  so  far 
apart!  I  wish  we  were  on  foot !" 

"Do  you?"  smiled  Marian,  directing  his  attention  to  the 
sloppy  path  down  which  they  were  riding. 

Thurston  smiled  ruefully,  and  then  sighed. 

"  When  do  you  set  out  on  your  long  journey,  dear  Thurston  ?" 

"  J  have  not  fixed  the  time,  my  Marian  1  I  have  not  the 
courage  to  name  the  day  that  shall  part  us  for  so  Long." 

He  looked  at,  her  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and  then  added, 

"  I  shrink  from  appointing  the  time  of  going,  as  a  criminal 
might  shrink  from  giving  the  signal  for  his  own  execution." 

"Then  let  some  other  agent  do  it,"  said  Marian,  smiling  at 
his  earnestness.  Then  she  added — "I  shall  go  to  Washington 
with  Jacquelina.  Her  party  will  set  out  on  Wednesday  next. 
And,  dear  Thurston,  I  shall  not  like  to  leave  you  here,  at  all. 
I  shall  go  with  more  content,  if  I  know  that  you  set  out  the 
same  day  for  your  journey." 

"But,  fairest  Marian,  never  believe  but  that  if  you  go  to 
Washington,  I  shall  take  that  city  in  my  way.  There  is  a  vessel 
to  sail  on  the  first  of  February,  from  Baltimore,  for  Liverpool. 
I  shall  probably  go  by  her.  I  shall  pass  through  Washington 
City  on  my  way  to  Baltimore.  Nay  indeed !  what  should  hin- 
der me  from  joining  your  party  and  traveling  with  you,  since 
we  are  friends  and  neighbors,  and  go  at  the  same  time,  from  the 
same  neighborhood,  by  the  same  road,  to  the  same  place  ?"  he 
askfid,  eagerly. 

A  smile  of  joy  illumined  Marian's  face. 

"  Truly,"  she  answered,  after  a  short  pause,  "  I  see  no  objec 
tion  to  that  plan.  And,  oh  !  Thurston,"  she  said,  holding  oti- 
her  hand,  and  looking  at  him  with  her  face  holy  and  beaming 
with  affection,  "  do  you  know  what  fullness  of  life  and  coniio/i 
— what  sweetness  of  rest  and  contentment  I  feel  in  your  pre- 
sence, when  I  can  have  that  rightly  ?" 

"  My  own  dear  Marian  I  Heaven  hasten  the  day  when  we 
shall  be  forever  united." 

And  he  suddenly  sprang  from  his  horse — lifted  her  from  her 


THE      FAIRY      BRIDE.  351 

saddle,  and  holding  her  carefully  above  the  sloppy  path,  folded 
her  fondly  to  his  bosom,  pressed  kisses  on  her  lips,  and  then 
replaced  her,  saying, 

"Dear  Marian,  forgive  me!  My  heart  was  half  breaking 
with  its  need  to  press  you  to  itself!  Now  then,  dearest,  I  shall 
consider  it  settled  that  I  join  your  party  to  Washington.  I 
shall  call  at  Locust  Hill  and  see  Mrs.  Waugh,  inform  her  of  my 
destination,  and  ask  her  permission  to  accompany  her.  By  the 
way — when  do  you  give  your  answer  to  that  lady  ?" 

"I  shall  ride  over  to  the  Hill  to-morrow  morning,  for  that 
purpose." 

"  Very  well,  dearest.  In  that  case  I  will  also  appoint  the 
morning  as  my  time  of  calling;  so  that  I  may  have  the  joy  of 
meeting  you  there." 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  verge  of  the  forest  and 
the  cross-road  where  their  paths  divided.  And  here  they  bade 
a  loving,  lingering  adieu  to  each  other,  and  separated. 

That  evening  Marian  announced  to  Edith  her  decision  to 
accompany  Jacquelina  to  Washington  City. 

Edith  approved  the  plan. 

The  next  morning,  Marian  left  the  house  to  go  to  Locust 
Hill,  where,  besides  the  family,  she  found  Thurston  already 
awaiting  her. 

Thurston  was  seated  by  Jacquelina,  endeavoring,  by  his  gay 
and  brilliant  sallies  of  wit  and  humor,  to  charm  away  the  sullen 
sadness  of  the  pale  and  petulant  little  beauty. 

And,  truth  to  tell,  soon  fitful,  fleeting  smiles  broke  over  the 
little  wan  face — smiles  that  grew  brighter  and  more  frequent  as 
she  noticed  the  surly  anxiety  they  gave  to  Doctor  Grimshaw, 
who  sat,  like  the  dog  in  the  manger,  watching  Thurston  sunning 
himself  in  the  light  of  eyes  that  never  by  any  chance  shone 
upon  him,  their  rightful  proprietor! 

Never !  for  though  Jacquelina  had  paled  and  waned,  failed 
and  faded,  until  she  seemed  more  like  a  moonlight  phantom 
thau  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood — her  spirit  was  unbowed,  un- 
broken, and  she  had  kept  her  oath  of  uncompromising  enmity 


352  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

with  fearful  perseverance.  Petitions,  expostulations,  prayers, 
threats,  had  been  all  in  vain  to  procure  one  smile,  one  word,  one 
glance  of  compliance  or  forgiveness.  And  the  fate  of  Doctor 
Grimshaw,  with  his  uuvvon  bride,  was  like  that  of  Tantalus. 
And  now  the  inconceivable  tortures  of  jealousy  were  about  to 
be  added  to  his  other  torments,  for  this  man  now  sitting  by  his 
side,  and  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  her  smiles,  was  the  all- 
praised  Adonis  who  had  won  her  maiden  admiration  mouths  ago. 

But  Thurston  soon  put  an  end  to  his  sufferings — not  in  con- 
sideration of  his  feelings,  but  because  the  young  gentleman 
could  not  afford  to  lose  or  risk  the  chance  of  making  one  of  the 
party  which  was  to  number  Marian  among  its  members.  There- 
fore, with  a  light  smile  and  careless  bow,  he  left  the  side  of 
Jacquelina  and  crossed  over  to  Mrs.  Waugh,  with  whom,  also, 
he  entered  into  a  gay  and  bantering  conversation,  in  the  course 
of  which,  Mrs.  Waugh  mentioned  to  him  their  purpose  of 
going  to  Washington  for  a  month  or  two. 

It  was  then  that,  with  an  air  of  impromptu,  Thurston  in- 
formed her  of  his  own  contemplated  journey  and  voyage,  and 
of  his  intention  to  go  to  Baltimore  by  way  of  Washington. 

"And  when  do  you  leave  here  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"  I  thought  of  starting  on  Wednesday  morning." 

"  The  very  day  that  we  shall  set  out — why  can't  we  travel  in 
company  ?"  asked  Henrietta,  socially. 

"  I  should  be  charmed  indeed — delighted !  And  nothing 
shall  prevent  me  having  that  honor  and  pleasure,  if  Mrs.  WTaugh 
will  permit  my  attendance." 

"Why,  my  dear  Thurston,  to  be  sure  I  will — but  don't  waste 
fine  speeches  on  your  uncle's  old  wife.  How  do  you  travel  ?" 

"As  far  as  Washington  I  shall  go  on  horseback,  with  a  mounted 
groom  to  bring  back  the  horses,  when  I  proceed  on  my  journey 
by  stage  to  Baltimore." 

"  On  horseback !  Now  that  is  excellent — that  is  really  pro 
vidential,  as  it  falls  out — for  here  is  my  Hebe,  whom  I  have 
coaxed  to  be  of  the  party,  and  who  will  have  to  perform  the 
journey  also  on  horseback,  and  you  will  make  an  admirable 
cavalier  for  her!" 


THE      FAIRY      BRIDE.  353 

Tlmrston  turned  and  bowed  to  Marian,  and  expressed,  in 
courtly  terms,  the  honor  she  would  confer,  and  the  pleasure  she 
would  give,  in  permitting  him  to  serve  her.  And  no  one,  to 
have  seen  him,  would  have  dreamed  that  the  subject  had  ever 
before  been  mentioned  between  them. 

Marian  blushed  and  smiled,  and  expressing  her  thanks,  ae» 
cepted  his  offered  escort. 

These  preliminaries  being  settled,  Thurston  soon  after  arose 
and  took  leave. 

Marian  remained  some  time  longer  to  arrange  some  little  pre- 
paratory matters  with  Mrs.  Waugh,  and  then  bade  them  good- 
bye, and  hastened  homeward. 

But  she  saw  Thurston  walking  his  horse  up  and  down  the 
forest-path,  and  impatiently  waiting  for  her. 

Doctor  Grimshaw  was  very  much  dissatisfied;  and  no  sooner 
had  Marian  left  the  house,  and  left  him  alone  with  Mrs.  Waugh 
and  Jacquelina,  than  he  turned  to  the  elder  lady,  and  said,  with 
some  asperity, 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  well,  Mrs.  Waugh,  if  you  had 
consulted  the  other  members  of  your  party  before  making  so 
important  an  addition  to  it. 

"And  I  think  it  would  be  better,  Doctor  Grimshaw,  if  you 
would  occupy  your  valuable  time  and  attention  with  affairs  that 
fall  more  immediately  within  your  own  province,"  said  Henrietta, 
loftily,  as  she  would  sometimes  speak. 

Doctor  Grimshaw  deigned  no  reply.  He  closed  his  month 
with  a  spasmodic  snap,  and  sat  ruminating — the  very  picture  of 
wretchedness.  He  was  indeed  to  be  pitied !  For  no  patience, 
no  kindness,  no  wooing  could  win  from  his  bride  one  smile. 
That  very  afternoon,  under  the  combined  goadings  of  exasperated 
self-love  and  poignant  jealousy,  Doctor  Grimshaw  sought  an 
interview  with  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  and  urged  her  in  the  most 
strenuous  manner  to  exert  her  maternal  influence  in  bringing 
her  daughter  to  terms. 

And  Mrs   L'Oiseau  sent  for  Jacquelina,  to  have  a  talk  with 


854  THE      MISSING      BRIDE 

her.  But  not  all  her  arguments,  entreaties,  or  even  tears,  could 
prevail  with  the  obstinate  bride  to  relax  one  single  degree  of 
her  unforgiving  antagonism  to  her  detested  bridegroom. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  with  sorrowful  bitterness,  "you  are  well 
now ;  indeed  you  never  was  so  ill  as  I  was  led  to  believe  :  and 
you  are  independent.  I  parted  with  my  only  hope  of  happi* 
ness  in  life  to  render  you  so  ;  I  sold  myself,  in  a  formal  marriage, 
to  be  the  legal  medium  of  endowing  Doctor  Grimshaw  with  a 
certain  landed  estate.  Even  into  that  measure  I  was  deceived — 
no  more  of  that !  it  crazes  me !  The  conditions  are  all  fulfilled : 
he  will  have  the  property,  and  you  are  independent.  And  now 
he  has  no  further  claim  upon  me,  and  no  power  over  me !" 

"He  has,  Jacquelina;  and  it  is  only  Doctor  Grimshaw's  for- 
bearance that  permits  you  to  indulge  in  this  wicked  whim." 

"  His  forbearance !  Oh !  hasn't  he  been  forbearing  though !" 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  mocking  laugh. 

"  Yes !  he  has,  little  as  you  are  disposed  to  acknowledge  it. 
You  do  not  seem  to  know  that  he  can  compel  your  submission !" 

"Can  he!"  she  hissed,  drawing  her  breath  sharply  through 
her  clenched  teeth,  and  clutching  her  fingers  convulsively,  while 
a  white  ring  gleamed  around  the  blue  iris  of  her  dilated  eyes. 
"  Let  him  try !  let  him  drive  me  to  desperation,  and  then  learn 
how  spirits  dare  to  escape !  But  he  will  not  do  that,  Mimmy ! 
he  reads  me  better  than  you  do  ;  he  knows  that  he  must  not  urge 
me  beyond  my  powers  of  endurance.  No,  mother !  Let  him 
take  my  uncle  into  his  counsels  again,  if  he  pleases ;  let  them 
combine  all  their  ingenuity,  and  wickedness,  and  power,  and 
bring  them  all  to  bear  on  me  at  once ;  let  them  do  their  worst 
— they  shall  not  gain  one  concession  from  me  ;  not  one  smile, 
not  one  word,  not  one  single  look  of  tolerance — so  help  me 
Heaven!  And  they  know  it,  mother! — they  know  it!  And 
why  ?  Ton  are  secured  from  their  malice :  now  they  can  turn 
no  screws  upon  my  heart-strings! — and  I  am  free  !  They  know 
it,  mother — they  know  it,  if  you  do  not." 

"But,  Jacquelina,  this  is  a  very,  very  wicked  life  to  lead! 
You  are  living  in  a  state  of  mortal  sin  while  you  persist  in  thi? 


THE      FAIRY      BRIDE.  555 

shocking  rebellion  against  the  authority  and  just  rights  of  your 
husband." 

"  He  is  not  my  husband !  that  I  utterly  deny !  I  have  never 
made  him  such !  There  was  nothing  in  our  nominal  marriage 
to  give  him  that  claim.  It  was  a  mere  legal  form,  for  a  mer- 
cenary purpose.  It  was  a  wicked  and  shameful  subterfuge  ;  a 
sacrilegious  desecration  of  God's  holy  altar !  but  in  its  wicked- 
ness Heaven  knows  I  had  little  will !  I  was  deluded  and  dis- 
turbed :  facts  were  misrepresented  to  me,  threats  were  made 
that  could  never  have  been  executed ;  my  fears  were  excited  foi 
your  life;  my  affections  were  wrought  upon;  I  was  driven  out 
of  my  senses  even  before  I  did  consent  to  be  his  nominal  wife 
— the  legal  sumpter-mule  to  carry  him  an  estate.  I  promised 
nothing  more,  and  I  have  kept  all  my  promises.  It  is  over!  it  is 
over !  it  is  done !  and  it  cannot  be  undone ! — But  I  never — never 
will  forgive  that  man  for  the  part  he  played  in  the  drama !" 

"  Ave  Maria,  Mater  Dolorosa!  "Was  ever  a  mother  so  sor- 
rowful as  I  ?  Holy  saints  and  angels !  how  you  shock  me ! 
Dou't  you  know,  wretched  child,  that  you  are  committing  deadly 
sin?  Don't  you  know,  alas  !  the  holy  church  would  refuse  you 
its  communion  ?" 

"  Let  it  1  I  will  be  excommunicated  before  I  will  give  Doctor 
Grimshaw  one  tolerant  glance !  I  will  risk  the  eternal  rather 
than  fall  into  the  nearer  perdition !" 

"Holy  Mary  save  her!  Don't  you  know,  most  miserable 
child !  that  such  is  your  condition,  that  if  you  were  to  die  now 
your  soul  would  go  to  burning  flames?" 

"  Ha  !  ha !     Where  do  you  think  it  is  now,  Mimmy  ?" 

"You  are  mad  1  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about ! 
And,  alas  !  you  are  half  an  infidel,  I  know,  for  you  don't  be- 
lieve in  hell !" 

"  Yes,  I  do,  Mimmy  !  Oh !  yes,  indeed  I  do  !  If  ever  my 
faith  was  shaken  in  that  article  of  belief,  it  is  firm  enough  now  I 
It  is  more  than  re-established,  for,  look  you,  Mimray  !  I  believe 
in  Heaven,  but  I  know  of  hell !" 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  do,  my  dear.     And  I  hope  yon  will  me- 


856  1HE      MISSING      BRIDE 

dilate  much  upon  it,  and  that  it  may  lead  you  to  change  your 
course  in  regard  to  Doctor  Grimshaw." 

"Mimmy!"  she  said,  with  a  wild  laugh,  "is  there  a  deeper 
pit  in  perdition  than  that  to  which  you  urge  me  now  ?" 


Fortune  certainly  favored  the  lovers  that  day;  for  when 
Thurston  reached  home  in  the  evening,  his  grandfather  said  to 
him, 

"Well,  Mr.  Jackanapes,  since  you  are  to  sail  from  the  port 
of  Baltimore,  I  think  it  altogether  best  that  you  should  take  a 
private  conveyance,  and  go  by  way  of  Washington." 

"  That  will  be  a  very  lonesome  manner  of  traveling,  sir,"  an- 
swered the  young  man,  demurely. 

"It  will  be  a  very  cheap  one,  you  mean,  and  therefore  will 
not  bent  you,  Sir  Millionaire !  It  will  cost  nothing,  and  there- 
fore lose  its  only  charm  for  you,  my  Lord  Spendthrift,"  cried 
the  miser,  sharply. 

"  On  the  contrary,  sir,  I  only  object  to  the  loneliness  of  the 
long  journey." 

"  No  one  to  chatter  to,  eh,  Mr.  Magpie !  Well  it  need  not 
be  so !  There's  Nace  Grimshaw,  and  his  set — extravagant 
fools ! — going  up  to  the  city  to  flaunt  among  the  fashionables. 
You  can  go  as  they  go,  and  chatter  to  the  other  monkey,  Jac- 
quelina — and  make  Old  Nace  mad  with  jealousy,  so  that  he 
shall  go  and  hang  himself,  and  leave  you  the  widow  and  her 
fortune !  Come !  is  there  mischief  enough  to  amuse  you  ?  But 
I  know  you  wont  do  it !  I  know  it  I  I  know  it !  I  know  it !  just 
because  I  wish  you  to  !" 

"What,  sir?  drive  Doctor  Grimshaw  to  hang  himself?" 

"No,  sir!  I  mean  you  wont  join  the  party." 

"You  mistake,  sir.  I  will  certainly  do  so,  if  you  wish  it," 
said  Thurston,  gravely. 

"Humph!  Well,  that  is  something  better  than  I  expected. 
You  can  take  the  new  gig,  you  know,  and  take  Melchisedek  to 
drive  you,  and  to  bring  it  back." 

"Just  as  you  say,  sir,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  with  filial 
compliance. 


THE      FAIRY      BRIDE.  357 

"  And  mind,  take  care  that  you  are  not  led  into  any  waste  of 
money." 

"I  shall  take  care,  sir." 

And  here  Thurston's  heart  was  gladdened  within  him.  He 
profoundly  thanked  his  stars.  The  new  gig !  What  an  oppor- 
tunity to  save  Marian  the  fatigue  of  an  equestrian  journey — 
offer  her  an  easy  seat,  and  have  the  blessing  of  her  near  com- 
panionship for  the  whole  trip!  While  his  servant,  Melchisedek, 
could  ride  Marian's  pony.  And  this  arrangement  would  be  so 
natural,  so  necessary,  so  inevitable,  that  not  even  the  jealous, 
suspicious  miser,  could  make  the  least  question  of  its  perfect 
propriety.  For,  under  the  circumstances,  what  gentleman  could 
leave  a  lady  of  his  party  to  travel  wearily  on  horseback,  while 
himself  and  his  servant  rode  cosily  at  ease  in  a  gig?  What 
gentleman  would  not  rather  give  the  lady  his  seat  in  the  gig — 
take  the  reins  himself  and  drive  her,  while  his  servant  took  her 
saddle-horse  ?  So  thought  Thurston.  Yet  he  did  not  hint 
the  subject  to  his  grandfather — the  method  of  their  traveling 
should  seem  the  impromptu  effect  of  chance.  The  next  morning 
being  Sunday,  he  threw  himself  in  Marian's  path,  waited  for  her, 
and  rode  with  her  a  part  of  the  way  to  church.  And  while 
they  were  in  company,  he  told  her  of  the  new  arrangement  in 
the  manner  of  traveling,  that  good  fortune  had  enabled  him  to 
make — that  if  she  would  so  honor  and  delight  him,  he  should 
have  her  in  the  gig  by  his  side  for  the  whole  journey.  He  was 
so  happy,  so  very  happy  in  the  thought,  he  said. 

"  And  so  am  I,  dearest  Thurston  !  very,  very  happy  in  the 
idea  of  being  with  you.  Thank  God!"  said  the  warm-hearted 
girl,  offering  her  hand,  which  he  took  and  covered  with  kisses. 

Thurston's  good  fortune  was  not  over.  His  star  was  still  in 
the  ascendant,  for  after  the  morning  service,  while  the  congre- 
gation were  leaving  the  church,  he  saw  Mrs.  Waugh  beckon 
him  to  he"  side.  He  quickly  obeyed  the  summons.  And  then 
the  lady  said, 

"  I  may  not  see  you  again  soon,  Thurston,  and  therefore  I 
tell  yon  now — that  if  you  intend  to  join  our  party  to  Washing. 


S58  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ton,  yon  must  make  all  your  arrangements  to  come  over  to 
Locust  Hill  on  Tuesday  evening,  and  spend  the  night  with  us  ; 
as  we  start  at  a  very  early  hour  on  Wednesday  morning,  and 
should  not  like  to  be  kept  waiting.  My  Hebe  is  also  coming 
on  Tuesday  evening,  to  stay  all  night.  Now,  not  a  word, 
Thurston.  I  know  what  dilatory  folks  young  people  are.  And 
I  know  very  well  that  if  I  don't  make  sure  of  you  on  Tuesday 
evening,  you  will  keep  us  a  full  hour  beyond  our  time  on 
Wednesday  morning — you  know  you  will." 

Thurston  was  secretly  delighted.  To  spend  the  evening  with 
Marian  !  to  spend  the  night  under  the  same  roof  with  her — 
preparatory  to  their  social  journey  in  the  morning.  Thurston 
began  to  think  that  he  was  born  under  a  lucky  planet.  He 
laughingly  assured  Mrs.  Waugh  that  he  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  or  wish  to  dispute  her  commands ;  and  that  on  Tues- 
day evening  he  should  present  himself  punctually  at  the  supper- 
table  at  Locust  Hill.  He  further  informed  her  that  as  his 
grandfather  had  most  arbitrarily  forced  upon  him  the  use  of  his 
new  gig,  he  should  bring  it,  and  offer  Miss  Mayfield  a  seat. 

It  was  now  Mrs.  Waugh's  turn  to  be  delighted,  and  to 
declare  that  she  was  very  glad — that  it  would  be  so  much  easier 
and  pleasanter  to  her  Hebe,  than  the  cold,  exposed,  and 
fatiguing  equestrian  manner  of  traveling.  "But  mind,  young 
gentleman,  you  are  not  to  make  love  to  my  Hebe  !  for  we 
all  think  her  far  too  good  for  mortal  man  !"  laughed  Mrs. 
Waugh. 

Thurston  gravely  promised  that  he  would  not — if  he  could 
help  it.  And  so,  with  mutual  good  feeling,  they  shook  hands 
and  separated. 

On  Monday  evening,  at  his  farewell  lecture,  Thurston  met 
Marian  again,  and  joyfully  announced  to  her  the  invitation  that 
Mrs.  Waugh  had  extended  to  him.  And  the  maiden's  delight- 
ful smile  assured  him  of  her  full  sympathy  with  his  gladness. 

And  on  Tuesday  evening,  the  whole  party  for  Washington 
was  assembled  around  the  tea-table  at  Locust  Hill.  The  even* 
frig  passed  very  cheerily.  The  Commodore,  Mrs.  Waugh, 


THE      BRIDE      OF      AN     HOUR.  359 

Marian,  and  Thnrston,  were  all  in  excellent  spirits.  And 
Thurston,  out  of  pnre  good  nature,  sought  to  cheer  and  enliven 
the  pretty,  peevish  bride,  Jacquelina,  who,  out  of  caprice, 
affected  a  pleasure  in  his  attentions  that  she  was  very  far  from 
feeling.  This  gave  so  much  umbrage  to  Doctor  Grirnshaw, 
that  Mrs.  Waugh  really  feared  some  unpleasant  demonstration 
from  the  grim  bridegroom,  and  seized  the  first  quiet  opportu- 
nity of  saying  to  the  young  gentleman, 

"  Do,  Thurston,  leave  Lapwing  alone  !  Don't  ytm  see  that 
that  maniac  is  as  jealous  as  a  Turk  ?" 

"Oh!  he  is!"  thought  Thurston,  benevolently.  "Very 
well !  in  that  case  his  jealousy  shall  not  starve  for  want  of 
aliment;"  and  he  devoted  himself  to  the  capricious  bride  with 
more  impressement  than  before — consoling  himself  for  his  dis- 
creet neglect  of  Marian,  by  reflecting  on  the  blessed  morrow 
that  should  place  her  at  his  side  for  the  whole  day. 

And  so  the  evening  passed ;  and  at  an  early  hour  the  party 
separated  to  get  a  good  long  night's  rest,  preparatory  to  their 
early  start  in  the  morning. 

But  Thurston,  for  one,  was  too  happy  to  sleep  for  some  time  : 
too  happy  in  the  novel  blessedness  of  resting  under  the  same 
roof  with  his  own  beautiful  and  dearest  Marian. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


THE      BRIDE       OF      AN      HOUR. 

"  lie  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  wa.«  calm, 

And  breathed  her  TOWS  with  virgin  pride. 
And  so  be  won  his  Marian, 
HU  bright  and  beauteous  bride."— Altered  from  CUeridye. 

IT  was  a  clear,  cold,  sharp,  invigorating  winter  morning. 
The  snow  was  crusted  over  with  hoar  frost,  and  the  bare  forest 


3t>0  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

trees  were  hnng  with  icicles.  The  cunning  fox,  the  'possum 
and  the  'coon,  crept  shivering  from  their  dens ;  but  the  shy, 
gray  rabbit,  and  the  tiny,  brown  wood-mouse,  still  nestled  in 
their  holes.  And  none  of  nature's  small  children  ventured  from 
their  nests,  save  the  hardy  and  courageous  little  snow  birds 
that  came  to  seek  their  food  even  at  the  very  threshold  of  theii 
natural  enemy — man. 

The  approaching  sun  had  scarcely  as  yet  reddened  the 
eastern  horizon,  or  flushed  the  snow,  when  at  Locust  Hill  oui 
travelers  assembled  in  the  dinning-room,  to  partake  of  their 
last  meal  previous  to  setting  forth. 

Commodore  Waugh,  and  Mrs.  L'Oiseau,  who  were  fated  to 
remain  at  home  and  keep  house,  were  also  there  to  see  the 
travelers  off. 

The  fine  vitalizing  air  of  the  winter  morning,  the  cheerful 
bustle  preparatory  to  their  departure,  the  novelty  of  the  break- 
fast eaten  by  candle-light,  all  combined  to  raise  and  exhilarate 
the  spirits  of  the  party. 

After  the  merry,  hasty  meal  was  over,  Mrs.  Waugh,  in  her 
voluminous  cloth  cloak,  fur  tippet,  muff,  and  wadded  hood  ; 
Jacquelina,  enveloped  in  several  fine,  soft  shawls,  and  wearing  a 
warm,  chinchilla  bonnet;  and  Dr.  Grimshaw,  in  his  dread- 
naught  overcoat  and  cloak,  and  long-eared  fur  cap,  all  entered 
the  large  family  carriage,  where,  with  the  additional  provision 
of  foot-stoves  and  hot  bricks,  they  had  every  prospect  of  a  com- 
fortable mode  of  conveyance. 

Old  Oliver,  in  his  many-caped  drab  overcoat,  and  fox-skin 
cap  and  gloves,  sat  upon  the  coachman's  box  with  the  proud 
air  of  a  king  upon  his  throne.  And  why  not?  It  was 
Oliver's  very  first  visit  to  the  city,  and  the  suit  of  clothes  he 
wore  was  bran  new  ! 

Thurston's  new  gig  was  furnished  with  two  fine  buffalo  robes 
— one  laid  down  on  the  seats  and  the  floor  as  a  carpet,  and  the 
other  laid  over  as  a  coverlet.  His  forethought  had  also  pro- 
vided a  foot-stove  for  Marian.  And  never  was  a  happier  man 
than  he  when  he  handed  his  smiling  companion  into  the  gij{ 


THE      BRIDE      OF      AN      HOUR.  361 

settled  her  comfortably  in  her  seat,  placed  the  foot-stove  under 
her  feet,  sprang  in  and  seated  himself  beside  her,  tucked  the 
buffalo  robe  carefully  in,  and  took  the  reins,  and  waited  the 
signal  to  move  on. 

Melchisedek,  or  as  he  was  commonly  called,  Cheesy,  mounted 
upon  Marian's  pony,  rode  on  in  advance,  to  open  the  gates  for 
the  party.  Mrs.  Waugh's  carriage  followed.  And  Thurston's 
gig  brought  up  the  rear.  And  thus  the  travelers  set  forth. 

The  sun  had  now  risen  in  cloudless  splendor,  and  was  strik- 
ing long  lines  of  crimson  light  across  the  snow,  and  piercing 
through  the  forest  aisles.  Flocks  of  saucy  little  snow-birds 
alighted  fearlessly  in  their  path ;  but  the  cunning  little  gray 
rabbits  just  peeped  with  their  round  bright  eyes,  and  then 
quickly  hopped  away. 

I  need  not  describe  their  merry  journey  at  length.  My 
readers  will  readily  imagine  how  delightful  was  the  trip  to  at 
least  two  of  the  party.  And  those  two  were  not  Dr.  Griuishaw 
and  Jacquelina. 

Never  in  all  his  life  had  Thurston  felt  so  joyous!  And 
never  had  his  Marian  seemed  so  lovely.  There  are  some 
beautiful  faces  which  the  cold  mars.  Of  such  was  not  bloom- 
ing Marian's.  Her  warm  rich  blood  and  fine  elastic  tempera- 
ment glowed  and  rebounded  against  the  chilling  and  depressing 
action  of  the  frost.  And  the  only  effect  of  the  sharp,  fresh, 
winter  morning  air  upon  her  splendid  organization  was  highly 
vitalizing  and  exhilarating,  kindling  a  more  vivid  glow  on  her 
cheeks  and  lips,  and  a  more  splendid  light  in  her  clear  blue 
eyes.  Thurston  was  positively  more  in  love  than  ever,  though 
that  could  scarcely  seem  possible.  And  he  used  the  oppor- 
tunity thus  afforded  him  to  press  his  suit  for  a  private  marriage. 
He  prayed  and  entreated  with  all  the  power  that  passion  can 
give  to  eloquence.  In  vain !  Marian  was  firm,  "  firm  as  an 
iceberg,"  Thurston  said,  reproachfully.  He  used  the  same  ar- 
guments that  she  had  answered  before. 

"  Dearest  Marian,  you  are  of  age.  You  have  neither  parent 
iior  guardian,  nor  even  patron  or  benefactor,  to  whom  you  owe 


362  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

the  slightest  obedience.  In  giving  me  this  dear  haLvl  in  pri- 
vate marriage,  while  making  me  inexpressibly  happy,  you  will 
transgress  no  law  of  God's  nor  of  man's,  nor  do  any  »-tong  to 
any  human  being  1" 

Specious  arguments  and  well  nigh  unanswerable,  but  to 
which  Marian  would  reply, 

"What  you  propose  to  me,  dear  Thurston,  may  not  be 
absolutely  wrong,  yet  in  a  secret  marriage  there  is  an  appear- 
ance of  evil  which  I  am  unwilling  that  you  or  I  should  assume. 
Dear  Thurston,  I  do  not  like  a  mystery,  I  like  our  lives  to  be 
as  open  to  the  inspection  of  man  as  to  God — as  open  as  the 
blessed  daylight !» 

"Or  as  your  own  fair,  clear,  radiant  beauty,  my  Marian  ! 
But,  oh  !  my  darling  girl,  how  willful,  how  arbitrary,  how  cruel 
and  despotic  you  are  with  your  likes  and  dislikes!" 

"  Dearest  Thurston,  if  you  only  knew  how  much  pain  it  gives 
me,  how  unnatural  it  feels  to  me  to  refuse  you  anything,  you 
would  not  press  me  so.  But,  dearest  Thurston,  be  patient  for 
a  little  while,  and  reflect  that  the  time  shall  come  when  your 
will  shall  be  the  law  of  your  Marian's  life,  when  there'll  be  no 
wish  your  heart  can  form  but  shall  govern  all  her  actions." 

"  Ah  1  dear,  cruel  girl  1  how  do  I  know  that  ?  Who  shall 
assure  me  of  that  ?  I  am  going  far  away — you  will  be  left 
here.  Life  is  changeable,  youth  inconstant ;  and  though  I 
know  the  truth  of  my  own  heart,  know  that  I  am  bound  to  you 
forever  and  forever — how  do  I  know  yours — who  shall  assure 
me  of  its  constancy  ?" 

"I  will,"  said  Marian,  earnestly.  "  /will.  Were  I  bound 
to  you  in  marriage,  as  fast  as  priests  and  legislators  conld  bind 
us,  I  could  not  be  truer  to  you  than  I  am  now,  and  shall  ever 
be.  Take  my  hand  in  yours,  and  receive  my  oath  of  fealty — 
that  henceforth,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  I  will  consider  you  ag 
ray  husband,  and  the  arbiter  of  my  earthly  fate ;  that  I  will 
never  turn  my  thoughts  for  an  instant  to  the  contemplation  of 
any  other  possible  destiny  than  that  of  your  wife!  Are  you 
satisfied  now,  dearest  Thurston  ?"  she  murmured  softly,  letting 
her  face  fall  gently  on  his  shoulder. 


THE      BRIDE      OF      AN      HOUR.  363 

Satisfied !  no,  he  was  not !  Never,  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  life,  had  he  felt  so  ?msatisfied.  Never,  even  since  he  had 
known  Marian,  had  his  passions  been  so  deeply  moved  as  now 
they  were  by  the  beauty,  grace,  and  charm — the  ineffable  fas- 
cination of  her  looks  and  words  and  manners.  Swiftly  passing 
liis  arm  around  her  waist,  he  whispered,  in  tones  scarcely 
audible  from  excess  of  feeling, 

"  Marian  !  Marian  !  Marian  !  Oh,  give  yourself  to  me  !  Give 
yourself  to  me  when  we  get  to  Washington,  or  I  shall  never  go 
from  there.  I  can  never  leave  you,  Marian  ;  never  !  Nor  can 
I  wait  for  you.  Be  mine,  Marian  !  let  all  else  go  !  wealth,  po- 
sition, prospects,  all — all — but  you  !  Come  poverty,  struggle, 
trial,  any  and  every  form  of  suffering,  rather  than  a  parting 
from  you  !  See  !  now  I  implore — not  for  a  secret  marriage,  but 
for  a  public  one  I  Oh,  I  should  be  proud  to  claim  this  pearl 
above  price  as  ray  own  in  the  sight  of  heaven  and  earth  !  Speak, 
Marian,  speak  !  Will  you  give  me  your  hand  in  the  presence  of 
our  friends,  as  soon  as  we  get  to  Washington  ?" 

"  No,  dearest  Thurston,  I  must  not.  I  dare  not.  I  will  not 
bring  you  to  poverty.  I  refused  a  secret  marriage,  and  still 
more  absolutely  do  I  reject  the  public  one." 

"And  why?  And  why  ?  Heaven  and  earth!  was  ever  a 
man  so  cruelly  treated — so  stretched  upon  the  rack  ?  Why  ?  I 
ask  you,  Marian  ?" 

"  Because  I  will  not  consent  that  you  shall  sacrifice  all  your 
prospects  for  love  of  me  !" 

"  Is  that  it  ?  Then  I  will  do  it  whether  you  will  or  not !  As 
soon  as  I  have  taken  you  to  Washington,  I  will  turn  about  and 
go  down  to  Dell-Delight,  and  say  to  the  old  man  there — '  Sir, 
make  your  will  and  leave  your  large  estate  to  whom  you  please, 
for  I  will  marry  no  other  woman  except  Miss  Mayfield,  and  I 
will  marry  her  as  soon  as  I  can  win  her  consent.'  And  then, 
when  the  old  man  has  turned  me  adrift,  and  I  have  nothing  to 
lose — then,  Marian,  you  will  accept  me  !"  said  Thurston,  pas- 
sionately, vehemently. 

"No,"  she  answered,  gently.     "  No,  dearest,  still  less  would 


364  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

I  do  so  then.  If  you  had  nothing  to  hope  from  your  uncle — 
if  you  had  your  own  way  to  make  in  the  world — I  would  never 
consent  to  oe  a  clog  upon  your  steps  !" 

"  Then,  Marian,  you  do  intend  to  drive  me  mad." 

"Thurston,"  she  said,  "I  intend  to  be  your  true,  faithful, 
patient  maiden,  until  I  can  be  your  happy  wife." 

A  passionate  reply  arose  to  his  lips  ;  but  before  he  could  give 
i*  utterance,  his  attention  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  sight  of 
Mrs.  Waugh's  carriage  stopping  and  filling  up  the  way.  Before 
them  was  a  narrow,  guttered,  dangerous  road,  winding  between 
the  trees,  up  a  steep  and  difficult  hill.  And  old  Oliver  had  got 
down  to  lead  the  horses. 

Within  the  carriage,  Mrs.  Waugh's  voice  was  heard  laugh- 
ing and  speaking.  She  seemed  to  be  the  life  of  her  own  little 
party,  and,  alas!  the  only  life  there;  but  still  she  laughed  and 
jested,  partly  from  the  abundance  of  her  own  good  health,  and 
the  overflowing  of  her  own  good  nature,  and  partly  with  the 
wish  to  arouse  and  amuse  the  pensive,  peevish  little  bride  and 
her  morose  bridegroom.  And  now  she  let  down  her  window 
and  put  out  her  head,  and  good-humoredly  hailed  Thurston., 
and  warned  him  to  mind  his  horse's  head,  and  not  grow  senti- 
mental, and  upset  the  gig  and  break  her  Hebe's  neck,  while 
pouring  soft  nonsense  into  her  ear. 

When  they  got  up  the  steep,  winding  hill,  the  carriages  fell 
into  their  former  order,  and  proceeded  as  before.  Thurston 
renewed  his  former  earnest  importunities,  but  with  no  better 
success  than  formerly,  until  at  length  for  the  time  being  be  de- 
sisted. And  still,  in  places  where  their  road  was  steep,  narrow, 
guttered,  or  otherwise  difficult,  and  their  carriages  had  to  pro- 
ceed slowly,  Mrs.  Waugh  would  let  down  her  window,  put  out 
her  head,  and  open  the  little  battery  with  her  small  shot  of 
badinage. 

And  so  pleasantly  they  traveled  on  until  three  o'clock,  when 
they  reached  Horsehead,  where  they  stopped  to  dine,  and  where, 
upon  account  of  Jacquelina's  extreme  fatigue,  they  concluded 
to  spend  the  night. 


THE      BRIDE      05      AN      HOUK.  365 

The  next  morning,  after  an  early  breakfast,  they  resumed 
their  journey,  traveling  in  the  same  manner  and  order,  until 
about  noon,  when  they  reached  Washington  City. 

At  that  time,  the  principal  hotel  in  Washington  was  the 
Mansion  House,  near  the  end  of  the  city.  To  this  house  our 
party  of  travelers  immediately  proceeded.  And  having  the  good 
fortune  to  find  excellent  apartments  vacant,  they  secured  them  at 
once,  and  settled  themselves  down  for  the  winter. 

Mrs.  Waugh  had  several  friends  and  acquaintances  among 
the  old  substantial  citizens  of  Washington — families  whose  fore- 
fathers had  owned  the  soil,  and  lived  upon  it,  long  before  the 
city  itself  was  laid  out;  and  she  lost  no  time  in  advising  them 
of  her  presence.  And  Doctor  Grimshaw  also,  besides  being  an 
intimate  friend  of  the  representative  from  their  own  Congres- 
sional district,  and  a  political  partizan  of  their  state's  senators, 
was  also  well  acquainted  with  some  of  the  leading  men  of  the 
administration,  and  had  brought  letters  of  presentation  to 
others,  which  he  did  not  delay  to  forward. 

Thurston  Willcoxen  was  intimate  with  the  family  of  the  resi- 
dent French  Minister,  having  formed  their  acquaintance  in 
Paris.  And  thus,  with  all  these  facilities  of  introduction,  our 
rustic  friends  soon  found  an  easy  and  pleasant  entrance  into  the 
best  society  of  Washington. 

But  of  all  the  party,  the  poor  little,  half-crazed,  half-broken- 
hearted bride,  Jacquelina,  was  the  only  one  who  threw  herself 
with  perfect  abandon  into  the  whirl  of  fashionable  society.  She 
accepted  every  invitation,  and  made  a  point  of  being  present  at 
every  possible  place  of  amusement  or  festivity.  Thus,  no  mat- 
ter what  the  state  of  the  weather  might  be,  night  after  night 
would  she  drag  Doctor  Grimshaw  into  scenes  and  companies 
opposed  to  his  tastes  and  habits,  and  where,  besides,  he  was 
not  in  the  least  fitted  to  shine. 

But  Jacquelina  was.     In  those  scenes  of  gayety  she  seemed 

quite  a  different  being  from  the  pale,  feverish  invalid  that  she 

was  at  home.     There  was  a  brilliant  glow  upon  her  cheeks,  a 

splendid  light  in  her  eyes,  a  flow  of  spirits,  and  a  fla?h  of  v.it 

23 


366  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

as  startling,  as  wondrous,  as  fascinating  as  it  was  unreal,  illu- 
sive, and  bewildering.  She  was  excessively  admired  and  sought 
for,  and  seemed  not  in  the  least  degree  disposed  to  reserve 
herself. 

Thus  evening  after  evening  was  passed  in  the  whirl  of  fashion- 
able society.  Nor  was  Sunday  an  exception  to  the  rule,  for 
upon  that  evening,  rather  than  stay  at  home,  she  would  insist 
upon  going  to  some  church  or  some  lecture-room  to  hear  some 
discourse  upon  home  or  foreign  missions,  Sunday  schools,  tem- 
perance, colonization,  or  some  other  kindred  subject  in  which 
she  took  not  the  slightest  interest,  and  of  which  she  heard  not 
one  single  word,  while  she  sat  with  her  little,  fair,  transparent 
face  as  still,  as  lifeless  as  a  picture,  and  her  unresting  spirit  fai 
away — far  away  I 

So  night  after  night,  and  nearly  all  night  long,  would  she 
keep  Doctor  Grimshaw  out.  Not  that  she  in  the  least  desired 
his  "comfortable  presence."  But,  inasmuch  as  he  could  not 
prevent  her  from  going  out,  and  could  not  banish  the  handsome 
and  fascinating  Thurston  "Willcoxen  from  the  same  party,  he 
was  resolved  always  to  attend  his  "wife,"  as  he  delighted  to 
call  Sans  Souci,  in  spite  of  her  indignant  and  frenzied  repudia- 
tion of  the  title.  And  to  Doctor  Grimshaw's  inexpressible  annoy- 
ance and  vexation,  strangers  invariably  and  naturally  mistook 
Jacquelina  and  Thurston  for  the  bridal  pair,  and  the  professor 
for  the  papa  of  the  bridegroom.  And,  really,  there  seemed  a 
family  likeness  between  Doctor  Grimshaw  and  Thurston  Wiil- 
coxen ;  for  though  the  one  was  fair  and  the  other  dark ;  the 
one  illumined  by  the  sunshine  of  enlightened  thought,  and  the 
other  darkened  by  the  shadows  of  fanaticism ;  the  one  joyous 
with  love  and  hope,  and  the  other  morose  with  disappointment 
and  jealousy  ; — there  was  a  certain  general  resemblance  in  forrn. 
and  features,  in  air  and  manner,  in  expression  and  tone  of  voice, 
und  above  all,  a  certain  high,  imposing  distinction  of  presence 
peculiar  to  both,  that  might  not  strike  you  at  first,  but  which 
might  readily  lead  you,  in  a  shaded  room,  or  a  twilight  walk,  or 
in  any  doubtfnl  light,  to  mistake  the  one  for  the  othcjr. 


THE      BRIDE      OF      AN      HOUR.  367 

But  Thurston  Willcoxen,  in  carrying  out  his  threat  to  give 
the  jealous  bridegroom  an  abundance  of  cause  for  his  jealousy, 
really  and  in  sober  fact  only  rendered  the  childish  bride  such 
general  and  unexceptionable  attentions  as  any  gentleman  might 
'blamelessly  pay  to  any*  young  married  lady  of  his  own  rank  and 
circle.  Yet  under  the  circumstances,  this  was  quite  food  enough 
for  Doctor  Grimshaw's  "green-eyed  monster,"  who  thrived  and 
grew  so  rampant  upon  it,  that  Mrs.  Waugh  became  anxious, 
and  again  spoke  to  Thurston  upon  the  subject. 

"Don't  you  see  that  the  miserable  lunatic  is  half  frantic  with 
jealousy  ?  And  positively,  I  am  afraid  he  will  grow  quite  so, 
and  do  himself  or  some  of  us  some  mortal  harm.  Now  do, 
Thurston,  keep  out  of  poor  Lapwing's  company ;  don't  look 
at  her;  don't  speak  to  her;  forget  that  she  is  in  the  room; 
neglect  her!" 

"But  I  cannot  do  that  without  absolute  rudeness." 

"Well,  then,  be  absolutely  rude,  rather  than  let  your  polite- 
ness cause  so  much  misery.  Don't  even  see  Lapwing!  Turn 
your  eyes  somewhere  else !  Now  there's  my  Hebe  !  Seems  to 
me  unaccountable  that  you  should  live  in  the  same  house,  sit  at 
the  same  table,  and  be  so  utterly  blind  to  the  charms  of  my 
Hebe !  Seems  to  me  if  /  were  a  young  gentleman,  /should  not 
be  so  indifferent,  nor  leave  a  perfect  rose  of  beauty  to  droop  in 
a  close  drawing-room,  when  I  might  be  taking  her  out  into  the 
sunshine,  and  showing  her  all  over  the  city.  Seems  to  me  so ' 
But  then  young  men  are  not  now  as  they  used  to  be  when  / 
v,  as  young !  Then  there  was  some  gallantry,  some  chivalry, 
some  loyal  devotion  to  the  royal  claims  of  beauty ;  now,  any 
ugly  heiress,  with  a  cheek  as  yellow  as  her  own  gold,  can  luiv 
away  the  subjects  of  the  very  queen  of  beauty !  Yet  it  is  not. 
so  in  my  Hebe's  case,  either,  sir!  She  could  be  followed, 
served,  and  worshiped,  I  am  sure,  sir,  if  she  were  not  so  choice 
in  her  satellites!  I  fancy  you  would  think  so,  if  you  only 
opened  your  eyes  to  see  how  the  gentlemen  adore  her  from  a 
distance !  But  you^—a.  young  gentleman  of  our  own  party — 
your  indifference  to  my  Hebe,  is  perfectly  unaccountable  and 
highly  exasperating  to  my  feelings  !" 


368  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Thurston  laughed,  complimented  the  good  lady  upon  her 
perspicacity,  and  promised  to  mend  his  manners  in  those  ob- 
jectionable points  of  which  she  had  complained.  And  he  kept 
his  word. 

Hitherto  he  had,  with  pain  and  reluctance,  yet  as  a  matter  of 
discretion,  and  at  Marian's  own  earnest  desire,  avoided  paying 
her  any  attentions  whatever.  His  few  interviews  with  the  beau- 
tiful girl  had  been  stolen,  short  and  sweet ;  had  been  snatched 
by  himself  in  the  intervals  of  other  company,  when  Marian 
really  "chanced"  to  be  alone.  Now,  however,  having  Mrs. 
Waugh's  amusing  complaints  upon  the  score  of  his  neglect,  to 
report  to  the  maiden,  he  might  be  able  to  persuade  her  to  give 
him  a  little  more  of  her  society,  in  rides,  walks,  and  sight-see- 
ings  about  the  capital. 

Up  to  this  time  Marian  had  gone  very  little  into  society ;  the 
reason  was  plainly  this — Marian  had  no  wardrobe  proper  for 
festive  scenes.  Her  usual  morning  dress  was  a  fine  French 
gray  merino,  and  Mrs.  Waugh  had  presented  her  with  a  pale 
blue  satin,  for  evening  costume ;  but  that  one  dress  could  not  be 
worn  everywhere;  nor  could  Marian  be  persuaded  to  accept 
another  such  a  present.  Therefore,  while  Jacquelina,  Doctor 
Grimshaw,  and  Thurston  Willcoxen,  went  every  morning  to  the 
Senate  or  the  House  of  Representatives,  or  to  some  other 
place  of  public  gathering,  and  every  evening  to  some  ball, 
party,  concert,  or  play,  Marian,  the  "flower  of  the  flock,"  re- 
mained at  home  to  keep  Mrs.  Waugh  company ;  happy  in 
doing  so  too,  was  the  maiden,  for  there  was  a  bond  of  real  re- 
spect and  affection  between  the  blooming  girl  and  the  elderly 
woman.  This  voluntary  seclusion  did  not  prevent  Marian  being 
included  in  all  the  invitations  extended  to  her  party.  And 
notwithstanding  her  plain  dress,  simple  manners,  and  retired 
habits,  Marian  was  greatly  admired.  And  her  declining  to  mix 
freely  wit.;  gay  and  fashionable  society  was  ascribed  by  some 
to  austere  piety,  by  others  to  excessive  pride,  by  none  to 
poverty!  For  in  Marian's  aspect,  there  was  a  certain  unob- 
trusive dignitj  and  self-esteem — a  certain  unconscious  quecnli- 


THE      BRIDE      OF      AN      HOUR.  369 

ness  of  presence — as  one  whose  superiority  had  been  too  long 
a  matter  of  nature  and  of  habit,  to  be  that  of  thought  or  as- 
sertion ;  and  in  truth,  in  all  personal  attributes  Marian  was 
superior  to  almost  every  one  she  met;  and  in  her  intercourse 
with  others  there  was  a  certain  involuntary  condescension,  even 
as  from  a  princess  taught  from  her  birth  graciousness  as  a  grace 
— a  certain  quiet  air  of  reserved  power  that  impressed  all  who 
came  within  its  influence,  and  which  worldly  and  superficial 
thinkers  believed  only  great  wealth  and  social  importance  could 
confer.  And  mean  while,  never  dreaming  of  the  fortune  and 
rank  that  had  been  ascribed  to  her,  Marian  passed  her  moru- 
ing.s  and  her  evenings  quietly  in  Mrs.  Waugh's  apartments. 

But  between  Mrs.  Waugh's  good-humored  raillery  and  ex- 
postulations, and  Thurston's  entreaties  and  persuasions,  Marian 
was  at  length  induced  to  emerge  from  her  retirement  and  go 
out  with  her  lover.  And  now  she  was  happy  to  be  free  to  give 
him  her  company,  so  happy  that  her  countenance  beamed  with 
calm  delight,  and  her  beauty  grew  brighter  every  day — so  much 
brighter,  that  it  became  a  subject  of  remark  to  Mrs.  Waugh, 
who  vowed  that  Marian  had  been  fairy-favored  in  some  way. 

And  one  morning  after  breakfast,  when  Mrs.  Waugh  had 
waddled  wearily  up  the  stairs  to  the  room  occupied  by  herself 
and  Marian,  and  dropped  down  heavily  into  her  chair — and  re- 
covered breath,  she  said, 

"Well,  Hebe!  half  the  gentlemen  in  our  dining-room  are  in 
love  with  you  !" 

"Nonsense,  Mrs.  Waugh!"  said  Marian,  blushing  ingenu- 
ously. 

"No 'nonsense' in  the  case  1  I  tell  you  their  coffee  grows 
cold  while  they  look  up  at  you !  or  at  least  while  they  sit  and 
gaze,  or  cast  sidelong  furtive  glances  up  at  our  corner  of  the 
table.  So  it  must  be  that  they  are  smitten  with  you  or  me. 
And  I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  good  taste  and  sound  morality, 
it  is  not  with  me,  a  woman  of  fifty-five,  who  weighs  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  pounds,  and  has  a  husband  besides ;  but  since 
you  disclaim  so  scornfully,  perhaps  it  is  me  now,  and  they  take 


370  THE      MISSING      BRIDE 

me  for  a  widow,  and  value  good  looks  by  size,  age  and  weight 
I  shall  put  you  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  to  test  the  matter. 
And  then  if  I  find  it  is  I,  I  shall  write  to  the  Commodore,  that's 
all." 

Marian  laughed,  and  was  glad  to  escape  Mrs.  "Waugh's  mil- 
ery  by  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  going  down  to 
seek  Thurston,  with  whom  she  had  an  appointment  to  go  to  the 
Senate  that  morning.  She  found  him  waiting  for  her  in  the 
drawing-room.  There  were  other  ladies  and  gentlemen  present, 
so  merely  greeting  her  with  a  slight  bow,  he  said  that  the  car 
riage  was  already  in  waiting  below,  and  conducted  her  down. 

When  they  had  entered  the  carriage,  Thurston  took  her  hand, 
and  pressing  it  within  his  own,  held  it  a  long  time  in  silence, 
gaxing  mournfully  in  her  eyes  the  while. 

"What  is  it  now,  dear  Thurston  ?"  she  said,  gently. 

But  he  sighed  deeply,  pressed  her  hand,  and  let  it  go,  saying, 

"I  cannot  tell  you  now." 

And  indeed  the  rattling  of  carriages,  and  the  mingled  deaf- 
ening noises  of  the  Avenue  effectually  prevented  a  sustained 
conversation  ;  but  when  after  a  ride  of  fifteen  minutes  they 
reached  the  Capitol,  in  handing  her  out,  Thurston  whispered, 

"  Dearest  Marian,  will  you  come  into  the  library  with  me  for 
a  few  minutes  ?  It  is  quite  deserted  at  this  time,  all  the  world 
having  left  it  to  flock  to  the  Senate  Chamber,  to  secure  good 
places  to  hear  the  squeaking  voice  of  John  Randolph." 

"But  had  we  not  better  'go  and  do  likewise,'  if  we  wish  to 
get  a  seat  and  hear  the  speech  ?" 

"My  dearest  one,  his  speeches  are  pleasanter  to  read  than  to 
listen  to.  And  I  must  have  a  private  interview  with  you  this 
morning  " 

Marian  then  assented,  and  he  led  her  up  the  broad  steps, 
terrace  after  terrace,  and  into  the  portico,  and  through  the 
great  hall,  and  up  another  broad  flight  of  stairs,  and  into  the 
splendid  saloon — the  library  of  Congress.  It  was,  indeed, 
quite  deserted,  a  thing  never  occurring,  except,  as  now,  when 
gome  great  star  of  the  forum  was  expected  to  rise  iii  the  Senate 


THE      BRIDE      CF      AN      HOUR.  371 

or  the  House.  So  silent  and  deserted  was  this  hall,  that  even 
the  closing  of  the  baize-covered  doors,  and  the  soft  fall  of  their 
steps  upon  the  carpet  woke  a  sort  of  slumberous  echo.  He 
led  her  up  the  whole  length  of  the  saloon  to  an  obscure  and 
shadowy  alcove  where  there  were  two  chairs  and  a  small  stand. 
Thf-y  sat  down. 

"Marian,"  said  Thurston,  leaning  across  the  little  table  that 
divided  them,  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  eyes — "Marian,  do 
you  recollect  what  day  this  is  ?" 

"Xo,  dear  Thurston,  not  exactly." 

"  It  is  the  thirtieth  of  January,  Marian,  and  on  the  first  of 
February  I  sail  for  Liverpool." 

"Oh,  no!  Xo,  no!"  she  exclaimed,  starting  as  if  suddenly 
hurt — "so  soon?  I  had  thought,  I  had  fancied,  I  had  hoped 
that,  you  would  not  go  so  soon !" 

"  Then  I  really  will  not,  dearest  Marian  !  dearest  mistress  of 
rny  fate,  I  will  not  leave  you  till  you  send  me  away." 

"  Xo,  no  !  I  would  not  detain  you  from  duty,  Heaven  knows. 
How  selfish  and  inconsiderate  I  am !  Do  not  mind  my  tears, 
dear  Thurston !  It  is  only  because  I  am  unprepared.  You 
have  not  lately  talked  of  going." 

"  I  did  not  like  to  talk  of  it.  I  did  not  wish  to  fling  a  shadow 
on  my  Marian's  bright  brow  one  hour  before  it  was  necessary. 
But  did  not  my  dear  one  know  that  I  had  purposed  to  sail  on 
the  first  of  the  month  ?" 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  knew ;  but  I  was  beguiled  by  the  sweet  passage 
of  the  time,  and  by  your  silence  on  the  subject,  into  the  hope 
that  you  were  not  going  quite  so  soon." 

"  And  was  the  time  sweet  to  you,  dear  girl  ?" 

"Very,  very  sweet  to  me,"  marmured  Marian,  in  low,  musical 
tones — "I  have  always  been  happy,  dearest  Thurston — but 
never,  never  so  happy  as  in  these  few  weeks  that  we  have  been 
so  much  together." 

"  My  own  heart's  darling  !  is  it  so  ?"  he  said,  earnestly,  mov- 
ing his  chair  around  to  her  side  of  the  stand,  and  taking  her 
hand,  aud  looking  beseechingly  in  her  eyes  as  he  prayed — "  My 


372  THE       MISSING       BRIDE. 

own  dearest  Marian,  my  heart's  dearest  queen,  I  have  one  part- 
ing petition  to  make  !  Will  you  grant  it  ?  Oh  1  beloved  !  icitt 
you  grant  it  ?" 

"What  is  it,  dear  Thnrston  ?"  she  inquired,  in  a  low,  tremu- 
lous, misgiving  voice. 

"  Will  you  give  me  this  fair  hand  in  marriage  before  I  go  ? 
You  turn  away  your  head — your  eyes  are  full  of  tears.  A  \\, 
Marian,  what  does  this  augur  ?" 

"  Dear  Thurston,  I  thought  this  subject  was  closed  between 
us  until  it  could  be  opened  under  happier  auspices." 

"But  I  reopen  it  under  a  new  aspect.  My  best  and  dearest 
one,  hear  me ;  this  evening  at  five  o'clock  I  leave  here  in  the 
night  coach  for  Baltimore.  Observe  that  I  stay  with  you  till 
the  latest  moment,  Marian.  At  four  o'clock  give  me  your  hand 
in  marriage,  and  I  leave  you  from  the  altar.  What  difference 
can  it  make  to  you,  Marian  ?  It  is  but  sealing,  legalizing  the 
betrothal  already  passed  between  us.  Just  on  the  eve  of  along 
voyage  as  I  am,  just  asking  for  the  ceremony  as  I  do,  what 
difference,  now,  if  you  are  in  earnest,  can  it  make  to  you  ?" 

Marian  did  not  reply — her  hand  was  trembling  in  his  clasp, 
and  her  eyes  had  drooped  beneath  his  gaze. 

"  If  you  love  me  as  I  know  you  do,  my  own  !  if  you  are  sincere 
in  your  wish  to  be  mine !  if  you  are  sincere  in  your  intention  to 
keep  your  maiden  vow  of  betrothal,  as  I  am  sure  you  are,  my 
beloved!  why  object  to  this  marriage  ceremony  now  passing 
between  us,  since  it  will  be  but  a  more  solemn  and  binding 
mode  of  betrothal,  and  we  can  wait  as  before  ?"  he  said,  and 
when  his  tongue  ceased  to  plead,  his  eyes  took  up  the  burden  of 
the  prayer. 

Never  in  her  life  had  Marian  been  so  profoundly  agitated 
with  conflicting  emotions.  The  color  kindled  and  died  ou  her 
cheek — her  bosom  rose  and  fell  as  with  an  inward  stcrm.  Ho 
saw  his  advantage,  and  pursued  it. 

"You  yourself  ackowledged,  dearest  girl,  that  as  you  were 
of  legal  age,  and  had  neither  parents,  guardians,  nor  patrons  to 
whom  you  owed  observance,  your  giving  yourself  to  me  in 


THE      BRIDE       OF      AX      HOUR.  373 

Carriage,  would  transgress  no  law  of  God  or  man,  nor  wrong 
one  human  creature  !     Did  you  not,  now  ?" 

"Yes,  dear  Thurston,"  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "but 
I  said,  at  the  same  time,  that  though  our  secret  marriage  did 
break  no  law,  human  or  divine,  nor  wrong  any  fellow  being,  yet 
it  would  not  be  right,  because  it  might  expose  us  to  miscon- 
struction and  slander  that  would  give  much  pain,  not  only  to 
u?,  but  to  those  who  love  and  respect  us,  and  whom  we  also 
equally  esteem." 

"  Yes,  sweetest  saint!  but  don't  you  perceive  that  in  the  case 
I  now  present,  your  last  objection  is  quite  obviated  ?  Our 
private  marriage  cannot  expose  you  to  any  evil  construction. 
since  immediately  after  the  ceremony  I  depart — depart — but 
with  the  blessed  certainty  that  you  are  mine — mine  forever — my 
own  dearest,  dearest  wife,  of  whom  no  vicissitudes,  no  misfor- 
tunes, no  calamity  short  of  death  itself  can  ever  deprive  me. 
When  I  should  think  of  you — as  when  should  I  not  think  of  you  ? 
— it  would  be  as  my  wife — sweet  and  dear  and  blessed  name! 
the  thought  of  it  would  brighten  even  the  days  of  absence.  And 
you,  dearest  girl — "  he  murmured,  stealing  his  arm  over  her 
shoulder,  and  drawing  her  tenderly  towards  him — "  how  would 
it  be  with  you  ?  Would  not  the  thought  that  we  were  bound 
together  forever  by  the  loveliest  and  holiest  bond — that  you 
were  mine  and  I  yours  forever — say,  would  it  not  make  the  hour 
of  parting  and  the  months  of  absence  less  painful  ?" 

Her  face  was  hidden  on  his  shoulder — her  form  was  trcm 
bling  very  much.  She  did  not,  or  could  not  reply,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded— 

"  Say,  darling  girl !  You  love  me,  I  know  you  do,  scarcely 
less  than  I  love  you — speak — tell  me — would  not  the  thought  lhat 
I  was  your  husband,  with  a  right  to  yourself  that  no  pc  sver 
could  contest,  and  that  you  were  my  own  adored  wife — the 
tearest  creature  and  the  dearest  interest  of  my  life,  with  the  first 
claim  upon  my  heart  forever — would  it  not  sweeten  even  tht, 
days  of  absence  ?" 

"It  would,  dear  Thurston,  it  would,"  she  whispered,  in  a  low 


374  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

and  thrilling  voice — "I  have  no  dearer  wish,  than  to  be  yours 
. — yours  only — yours  entirely  and  forever." 

"  Then  why  not,  my  blessed  one  ?  why  not  give  me  the  great 
joy,  and  yourself  the  sweet  content  of  knowing  that  we  belong 
to  each  other  ?  Love  !  love  I  it  is  my  parting  prayer — do  not 
reject  it!  for,  Marian,  how  know  you  but  it  maybe  my  last  one  ? 
There  are — remember! — such  events  in  life  as  illness,  storms, 
tires,  shipwrecks.  Those  who  go  to  sea  may  never  return  again 
— those  who  part  may  never  meet.  And  were  my  dearest 
Marian  destined  never  to  see  my  living  face  again,  bow  bitter 
would  be  the  thought  that  she  had  refused  my  last  prayer  " 

"  Oh  !  Thurston,  do  not  think  of  such  calamities — they  will 
not  befall  us !  You  will  return  in  safety.  We  shall  meet  next 
summer  in  renewed  joy." 

"  Heaven  grant  it,  sweetest  Marian  !  But  now  what  answer  to 
my  prayer?  "Will  my  Marian  grant  it?  Oh!  speak,  dearest 
girl !  Will  you  let  me  depart — since  I  must  do  so — as  your 
husband  ?  Will  you  let  me  have  the  comfort  of  thinking  of  you, 
of  looking  forward  to  returning  to  yon — as  my  wife  ?  And  then, 
indeed,  dear  Marian,  our  meeting  shall  be  in  deep  joy  ;  for  then, 
in  all  human  probability,  I  shall  be  free  to  publish  our  marriage, 
and  proud  to  claim  you  as  my  own." 

His  arm  still  clasped  her  waist,  her  face  was  still  hidden  on 
his  shoulder,  her  form  was  quivering  with  emotion.  She  did 
not  or  could  not  reply.  Then — 

"  Remember,  Marian,  it  is  likely  to  be  as  I  say — that  when  I 
return  I  shall  be  able  to  take  you  proudly  to  my  heart,  for  he  is 
ninety-five." 

"  Oh,  do  not  speculate  upon  such  a  fact,  dearest  Thurston  ! — 
it  is  worse  than  all  the  rest,  for  it  is  really  sinful,  and  will  draw 
down  upon  us  the  righteous  judgment  of  Heaven  !  There  is, 
oesides,  something  dreadful  and  repellant  in  a  scheme  of  ,'ife 
and  happiness  that  must  rise  upon  a  grave!" 

"And  why,  fair  saint?  All  the  life,  happiness  and  prosperity 
in  the  living  world,  have  risen  over  the  graves  of  the  dead ! 
The  present  is  the  heir  of  the  past,  as  the  future  will  be  the  heir 


THE      BRIDS      OF      AX      HO  UP..  375 

of  the  present.  The  living  are  the  heirs  of  the  dead,  and  why 
regret  that,  since  the  dead — if  while  in  life  they  lived  aright — 
have  passed  to  a  still  richer  inheritance  ?" 

"Then  let  us  be  sure  to  live  aright,  dear  Thnrston,  that  if 
we  miss  the  inheritance  in  this  world,  we  may  find  the  more 
glorious  one  in  the  next !" 

"Agreed!  but  there  is  nothing  I  am  so  little  disposed  to  do 
just  now,  as  to  discuss  philosophy  with  you,  sweet  theologian  ! 
I  wish,  in  fact,  that  you  could  forget  it  all — it  may  make  you 
mure  attractive  in  the  eyes  of  the  grave  fathers  of  the  church, 
though  even  that  I  question — but  it  cannot  make  you  lovelier  in 
my  eyes,  fair  girl.  As  for  the  patriarch,  let  him  vegetate  on  to 
the  age  of  Methuselah,  and  I  shall  be  content,  if  only  you  will 
no\v  consent  to  let  the  marriage  rites  be  solemnized  between  us 
before  I  leave  you.  Come,  now  !  What  says  my  Marian,  since 
her  last  argument  is  overthown,  and  it  cannot  expose  her  to 
misconstruction,  because  I  depart  immediately?  Come,  come, 
what  says  my  dearest  girl — cannot  she  answer  at  all?"  he 
pleaded,  with  gentle,  constraining  force  ;  "  will  she  not  answer 
my  parting  prayer?" 

Marian  lifted  up  her  head  an  instant,  and  placed  both  her 
hands  in  his,  and  then  dropped  her  face  upon  his  shoulder  again. 

"  And  this  is  your  answer.  Ten  thousand  blessings  on  you 
for  it,  my  own  dear  bride.  Bless,  bless  you,  Marian  !  bless 
tliese  sunny  tresses !"  he  said,  dropping  his  face  caressingly 
upon  her  head;  "bless  this  pure,  fair  brow!  and  these  clear 
eyes  !  and  those  sweet,  closed  lips,  though  they  would  not  speak 
mv  happiness!  and  bless  these  dear  hands  that  came  to  mine 
and  spoke  for  them.  Oh,  God  !  love  and  bless  my  Marian  for- 
ever !  and  God  banish  me  from  His  Heaven  eternally,  if  ever  I 
cause  her  one  sigh  or  tear  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  all  the  fervor  and 
earnestness  of  a  passion  as  strong  and  sincere  as  it  was  v'uue<m- 
ociously)  selfish  and  exacting. 

And  so,  in  the  overflowing  of  his  gratitude  and  joy,  he  con- 
tinued to  talk  to  her  and  caress  her,  while  the  time  slipped 
unheeded  by,  until  the  adjournment  of  the  Senate  sent  people 
straying  into  the  library.  Then  he  arose. 


37C  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  My  dearest  love,  I  have  been  bewitched.  How  late  it  is  ! 
ftnd  we  have  so  much  to  accomplish  before  evening.  Come,  I 
must  take  a  carnage  and  go  to  the  county  clerk's  office  before 
it  is  closed.  You  must  go  with  me,  dear  Marian  ;  I  cannot 
lose  sight  of  you  to-day — our  last  day." 

And  carefully  arranging  her  shawl  upon  her  graceful 
shoulders,  he  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  and  conducted  hei 
from  the  library  and  down  stairs  into  the  open  court-yard. 

Thurston  gave  orders  to  be  driven  immediately  to  the  court 
house,  which  they  reached  in  about  ten  minutes.  Leaving 
Marian  in  the  carriage,  he  hastened  into  the  building  ;  found 
the  county  clerk  just  in  the  hurry  of  closing  up  his  office,  pro- 
cured the  marriage  license,  and  hastened  back  to  Marian. 

He  directed  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Navy  Yard  Hill, 
and  there,  in  tl«e  remotest  and  quietest  suburb  of  the  city,  he 
hunted  up  a  pastor  of  a  small  Methodist  society,  in  whose  little 
chupel,  without  witnesses,  Thurston  and  Marian  were  married. 

From  the  humble  chapel  he  led  her  to  the  hack,  and  gave 
orders  to  be  -driven  back  to  the  Mansion  House,  where  they 
arrived  just  before  the  ringing  of  the  second  dinner-bell. 

Marian  went  to  her  room  to  layoff  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and 
arrange  her  hair  for  dinner.  Mrs.  Waugh  had  already  left  the 
apartment,  and  Marian  was  glad  for  once  to  find  it  empty,  that 
she  might  kneel  down  beside  her  bed  and  pour  forth  the  fullness 
of  her  heart  in  thanksgiving  and  prayer — thanking  God  for  the 
deep  joy  that  was  filling  and  overflowing  her  soul,  and  praying 
His  blessing  on  her  husband — her  husband,  she  lingered  in 
fond  devotion  upon  the  adored  name — her  husband  and  his 
voyage. 

Then  she  arose,  and  in  the  blessed  dream  of  love  she  went 
mechanically  through  her  simple  toilet,  and  passed  down  stall's 
to  the  dining-room,  where  the  guests  were  already  assembled  at 
the  table. 

Thurston  was  awaiting  her  near  the  entrance.  Natural  as 
that  act  was  she  had  not  anticipated  it,  and  her  heart  bounded 
when  she  saw  him.  He  led  her  to  her  seat  by  Mrs.  Waugh, 
and  then  went  to  his  own. 


THE   BRIDE   OF   AN   HOUR.       877 

"  You  see  now  the  soup  is  cold,  Hebe,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh. 
"  Where  in  the  world  have  you  been  ?  It  is  astonishing  to  me 
the  indifference  of  young  people  to  good  living.  Now  the  best 
speech  I  have  heard  this  season  was  not  half  so  good  as  this 
turtle  soup,  when  it  was  hot,  but  maybe  they  have  got  some 
hot  in  the  kitchen.  I  don't  believe  you're  listening  to  a  word  I 
say  to  you,  Hebe." 

"  Ma'am  !"  .said  Marian,  startled  out  of  her  dream. 

"  Oh  1  you  hear  now.  Well,  Hebe,"  continued  the  good 
lady,  in  a  low  tone,  audible  only  to  her  companion.  "  I  believe 
after  all  it  is  /  whom  the  men  admire,  for  they  have  been  look- 
ing up  at  this  corner  just  as  much  as  ever,  with  this  inconsid- 
erable difference,  that  their  eyes  have  wandered  continually 
from  your  empty  chair  to  the  door ;  but  that  was  nothing,  you 
know.  So  hide  your  blooming  face,  Hebe,  for  my  greater 
proportions  overshadow  it,"  concluded  Mrs.  Waugh,  as  she 
turned  her  attention  to  the  plate  of  boiled  rockfish  and  egg  sauce 
that  the  waiter  just  laid  before  her. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  the  guests  left  the  dining- 
room.  Mrs.  Waugh  went  up  to  her  room  to  take  her  afternoon 
nap,  having  previously  received  the  adieus  of  Thurston.  Jac- 
quelina  went  up  to  hers  to  lie  down  and  rest  before  dressing  to 
go  to  the  theatre.  Doctor  Grimshaw  strayed  into  the  reading- 
room  to  sulk  over  the  newspapers. 

Tliurston  and  Marian  found  an  opportunity  to  be  alone  in 
the  drawing-room  for  the  few  moments  preceding  his  departure. 
In  those  last  moments  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to 
withhold  one  word  whose  utterance  would  cheer  his  soul,  and 
give  him  hope  and  joy  and  confidence  in  departing.  Marian 
had  naturally  a  fine,  healthful,  high-toned  organization — a 
happy,  hopeful,  joyous  temperament,  an  inclination  always 
to  look  upon  the  sunny  side  of  life  and  events.  And  so 
when  he  drew  her  gently  and  tenderly  to  his  besom,  and 
whispering, 

"  You  have  made  me  the  happiest  and  most  grateful  man  on 
earth,  dear  lovelv  Marian  !  dear,  lovelv  wife !  but  are  yov 


878  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

satisfied,  beloved — oh !  are  you  satisfied  ?  do  I  leave  you 
at  ease  ?" 

Slie  spoke  the  very  truth,  when  she  confessed  to  him — her 
head  being  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  low  tones  flowing  softly  to 
his  listening  ear — 

"  More  than  satisfied,  Tlmrston — more  than  satisfied.  I  am 
inexpressibly  happy  now.  Yes,  though  you  are  going  away; 
for,  see  !  the  pain  of  parting  for  a  few  months,  is  lost  in  the  joy 
of  knowing  that  we  are  united,  though  separated — and  in  antici- 
pating the  time  not  long  hence,  when  we  shall  meet  again. 
God  bless  you,  dearest  Thurston." 

"  God  forever  bless  and  love  you,  sweet  wife." 

And  so  they  parted. 

Marian  had  said  that  she  was  "  inexpressibly  happy."  And 
so  she  was,  as  long  as  his  arms  were  around  her,  and  words  of 
mutual  endearment,  hope  and  promise  were  breathed  between 
them.  But  when  he  was  really  gone — when  the  last  glimpse  of 
the  stage-coach  was  cut  off,  Marian  turned  away,  and  she  wan- 
dered lonely  and  restless  through  the  halls  and  drawing-rooms 
of  the  great  hotel — how  empty,  though  full  of  tenants — how 
desolate,  though  full  of  social  life,  they  seemed.  At  last  she 
went  to  her  own  room,  and  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  tears  ;  not 
very  bitter — it  was  only  the  breaking  up  of  the  passing  cloud 
of  sorrow  that  naturally  overshadowed  the  hour  after  parting. 
And  when  this  shower  was  over,  the  sun  shone  out  again  in 
her  bright  nature — and  all  was  love,  and  hope,  and  joy  in  her 
buoyant  heart. 

So  that  when  the  sound  of  the  supper-bell  aroused  Mrs. 
Waugh  from  her  deep  sleep — not  a  truce  of  sorrow  shaded 
Marian's  sunny  brow 

"  Ynw-w!"  gaped  the  good  woman,  only  half  uwake — "is 
that  the  first  bell  ?  I'm  getting  tired  of  this  worthless  life  ; 
nothing  but  dressing  and  eating,  and  undressing  and  sleeping, 
and  waking  up  and  dressing  and  eating  again.  Taw-w-w. 
Oh!  at  least  for  old  people.  I  want  to  get  back  to  St.  Mary's 
I  know  very  well  everything  is  going  on  wrong  there  —and 


THE      BRIDE      OF      AN      HOUR.  3T(J 

Mnry  L'Oiseau  will  never  have  the  sense  to  prevent  the  hen- 
turkeys  going  to  setting,  as  ours  are  sure  to  do  in  February  if 
they're  not  hindered,  and  then  all  the  young  turkeys  will  be 
killed  by  the  cold.  Yaw-w-w!  Yes — I  beiieve  I  have  got  the 
gaps."  She  finished  with  an  awful  yawn. 

li  Yaw-w-w — oh-h-h  !  And  I  don't  believe  it  is  doing  Lap- 
wing the  least  good,  poor,  willful,  unhappy  child  !  I've  a  great 
mind  to  propose  going  home.  What  do  you  think  about  it, 
Hebe  ? — I  don't  believe  she  hears  a  word  I  say — Hebe  !" 

"  Ma'am  !"  exclaimed  Marian,  starting  out  of  her  reverie,  and 
blushing  deeply. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  our  going  home  next  week  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go,  Mrs.  Waugh." 

"  Well,  child,  I'll  name  it  to  the  Professor,  and  I  think  we'll 
go,"  said  Henrietta,  rising  and  preparing  to  make  her  plain 
evening  toilet. 

In  a  happy  dream,  Marian  helped  her  to  finish  dressing, 
went  down  with  her  to  the  supper-table,  and  thence  accompa- 
nied her  to  the  drawing-room.  But  there,  as  Marian  was  very 
much  admired,  and  her  company  and  conversation  very  much 
sought,  her  blissful  reverie  was  so  dispersed  that  she  longed  for 
the  hour  of  withdrawing,  that  she  might  escape  to  her  room, 
and  there,  with  the  visible  world  shut  out,  live  her  inner  life. 

Ten  o'clock,  Mrs.  Waugh's  bed  time,  came  at  last — and  the 
laxly,  with  Marian,  retired  to  their  apartment.  Good  Henrietta 
was  soon  asleep.  And  Marian  sought  her  pillow,  to  close  her 
eyes  and  think  of  her  happiness,  and  dream  her  beautiful  dreams 
in  peace.  And  there  she  lay,  with  her  blooming  cheek  and 
bright  auburn  hair  lightly  pressed  upon  the  downy  pillow — the 
heavenly  smile  of  loving  and  devoted  thoughts  curving  her 
ruby  lips,  and  kindling  under  her  dark  eye-lashes.  "  He  is  mv 
husband,"  she  murmured,  softly,  smiling  to  herself — "  dear 
iiauie,  sweet  thought — it  is  no  dream  from  which  I  shall  awako 
— it  is  the  blessed,  blessed  reality.  Yes  !  my  husband.  And  oh  I 
I  will  be  so  good  and  lovely — yes  I  will,  dearest,  dearest  Thurs- 
tou  !  I  will  be  such  a  treasure  to  you.  You  will  think  there 


380  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

is  no  other  woman  like  your  wife  in  the  world,"  she  murmured 
ovt-r  many  times,  like  the  refrain  of  some  sweet  melody,  "  I  am 
his  wife — thank  God!  bless  God!  I  ask  no  happier  earthly 
fate  !"  And  thus  she  lay,  with  the  holy  smile  of  love  half  part- 
ing the  fresh  and  dewy  lips,  half  raising  the  snowy  eyelids  from 
the  melting  dreamy  eyes,  in  beautiful  visions  warm  as  earth- 
bom  passion,  yet  pure  as  Heaven's  love. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Waugh  broached  the  subject  of  re- 
turning home  to  Doctor  Grimshaw.  The  Professor  was  willing, 
nay  anxious  to  accede  to  the  proposition.  But  when  the  plan 
was  named  to  Jacquelina,  she  put  her  instant  veto  upon  it. 

"  Those  might  go  wrho  liked  St.  Mary's  !  She  didn't — and 
she  should  stay  where  she  was  !" 

It  was  of  no  use  to  contend  with  the  willful  one — still  she 
answered,  "  Those  might  go  who  wished" — she  put  no  con- 
straint upon  any  one's  actions,  nor  would  she  suffer  any  con- 
straint upon  hi  rs!  She  should  remain. 

They  had  no  hold  upon  her  conscience  or  her  affections,  and 
so  they  had  no  means  of  constraining  her ;  therefore  the  journey 
home  had  for  the  time  to  be  deferred.  And  thenceforth  the  very 
demon  of  perversity  seemed  to  enter  the  child.  She  gadded 
about  continually,  flirted  desperately,  lavished  money  wantonly. 
She  kept  Doctor  Grimshaw  on  the  qui  vive  every  instant  of  his 
life,  tormenting  him  day  and  night  with  the  most  extravagant 
eccentricities,  going  into  hysterics  on  the  slightest  possible  pro- 
vocation, and  at  the  shortest  notice,  and  afterwards  screaming 
with  laughter  at  "Grim's"  dismay  and  terror.  Grinding  his 
teeth  in  bitter  rage,  he  would  declare  that  it  was  all  because 
that  "  puppy  Willcoxen"  was  gone,  and  he  grew  more  acrimo- 
niously jealous  thaa  before.  So  great  was  the  excitability  and 
disorder  of  her  nervous  system,  that  serious  fears  were  enter- 
tained by  her  friends  for  the  stability  of  her  reason.  But  when 
any  such  fears  chanced  to  be  betrayed  to  her  knowledge,  she 
would  laugh  her  wild,  shrill,  elfish  laugh,  and  declare  that  her 
H-nses  were  safe — that  she  did  not  mean  to  go  mad  uiuil  she 
had  first  driven  "Grim''  so — then  maybe! 


THE      BRIDE      OF      AN      HOUR'.  381 

Marian  was  the  only  being  from  whom  she  would  bear  one 
word  of  expostulation,  and  Marian,  in  her  grave,  sweet  way, 
reasoned  with  her. 

"The  life  you  lead,  dear  Lina,  makes  all  your  friends  very 
miserable." 

"  Ha,  ha !  Well,  they  made  me  miserable  first !  miserable 
forever  1  I  have  suffered  the  greatest  wrong  a  girl  could  ever 
receive !" 

"  Your  present  course  does  not  make  you  happier,  nor  right 
thr.t  wrong,  poor  child." 

"  I  know  it  doesn't,  but  it  worries  Grim',  though !" 

"  And  why  should  you  pursue  it  for  that  reason  ?" 

"  Why  ?  you  ask  me  why  ?  I  hate  him !  Oh,  how  I  hate  him  !" 

"  Listen  to  me,  dear  Lina,  for  I  love  you,  and  I  will  not 
wrong  you  by  any  vain  words  or  false  consolations.  You  arc 
not  happy,  I  know — under  these  circumstances  you  can  never 
be  so  in  this  world.  I  will  not  mock  you  by  pretending  that 
you  cau  !  No,  you  cannot  be  happy,  but  you  can  be  more 
than  that,  higher  than  that,  you  cau  be  GOOD.  Christ,  our  Ex- 
emplar, was  not  '  happy  ;'  He  was  a  'man  of  sorrows,'  but  He 
was  the  perfectly  good.  Take  up  the  cross  of  life,  and  follow 
Him.  Ask  Him,  and  He  will  give  you  strength  to  lift  the  bur 
den,  and  make  it  easy  to  your  shoulders.  You  will  never  fine, 
peace  nor  rest  till  you  do.  If  you  have  lost  earthly  happiness 
do  not  therefore  forsake  duty,  and  cast  away  eternal  joys.  Oui 
mortal  life,  at  longest  and  at  best,  is  but  a  transient  struggle- 
compared  to  eternity,  and  no  scheme  of  life  and  happiness  in 
this  world  is  so  valuable  and  so  sublime,  as  that  of  the  de- 
velopment and  perfection  of  our  own  spirits.  As  for  Doctor 
Grimshaw,  he  has  done  wrong,  but  that  is  past  and  cannot  be 
undone.  He  is  unhappy,  and  much  to  be'piticd;  judge  him 
leniently  as  you  can — try  to  speak  kindly  to  him." 

If  Marian's  words  produced  little  present  effect,  they  never- 
theless sunk  into  the  unhappy  girl's  heart,  as  the  words  of  no 
other  ever  did. 

And  it  was  Marian  who  finally  prevailed  upon  the  perverse 
creature  to  consent  to  return  home. 
24 


382  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

And  so,  about  the  middle  of  February,  the  party,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  a  very  fine  spell  of  weather,  set  out  on  their  journey 
to  St.  Mary's,  and  upon  the  evening  of  the  second  day  reached 
Locust  Hill. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

GOLDEN      OPINIONS. 

" « They'  have  honored  me  of  late ;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
AVhich  should  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon." — S/iakfpeare. 

MARIAN'S  return  home  was  an  ovation.  Had  she  ever  doubted 
her  sovereignty  over  hearts,  she  must  have  been  reassured  by 
her  reception.  Not  only  did  Edith  weep  for  joy  at  her  com- 
ing, and  little  Miriam  follow  and  wait  upon  her  with  idolatrous 
devotion,  which  was  natural  and  to  be  expected;  but  when  it 
was  generally  known  that  she  had  returned  to  the  neighbor- 
hood, many  friends  and  acquaintances,  who  had  never  been  at 
the  cottage  before,  now  called  to  see  her ;  and  tea-drinkings 
and  other  little  parties  were  given  in  her  honor. 

And  on  Sunday  at  church,  after  the  morning  service,  not  only 
her  female  companions,  but  also  the  grave  deacons  and  elders 
of  the  church,  thronged  around  her  to  welcome  her  home. 
Colonel  Thornton  and  his  maiden  sister  were  especially  kind 
and  polite.  Colonel  Thornton  informed  her  that,  if  she  should 
be  disengaged  the  next  morning,  his  sister  and  himself  would 
call  at  Old  Fields,  to  propose  a  plan  for  her  consideration  that 
required  more  time  for  thought  and  discussion  than  could  be 
given  to  it  just  then  at  church.  Marian  readily  promised  to 
remain  at  home  the  next  day  to  receive  her  visitors.  And  with 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  383 

mutual  expressions  of  friendship  and  good  wishes  they  sepa 
rated. 

On  Monday  morning  the  Colonel  and  Miss  Thornton  called 
at  Old  Fields,  and  the  object  of  their  visit  was  briefly  this — 

During  Marian's  absence  in  the  city,  several  of  the  principal 
planters  of  the  neighborhood  had  met  to  discuss  the  propriety 
of  establishing  in  the  village  an  academy  for  young  ladies,  upon 

a  par  with  the  C Academy  for  young  gentlemen.     In  that. 

and  in  two  subsequent  meetings,  the  whole  preliminaries  had 
been  arranged,  the  money  subscribed,  the  site  of  the  school 
chosen,  the  trustees  elected,  the  teacher  appointed,  and  her 
very  liberal  salary  fixed.  And  now  Colonel  Thornton  and  his 
sister  had  come  as  a  committee  to  inform  Marian  of  her  ap- 
pointment, and  to  solicit  her  acceptance  of  the  post. 

It  was  with  smiles  of  heartfelt  joy,  that  Marian  clasped  the 
hands  of  her  friends,  and  assured  them  of  the  pleasure  she  felt 
in  receiving  the  situation  they  had  done  her  the  honor  to  offer. 

The  Colonel  and  Miss  Thornton  seemed  very  much  pleased 
by  her  prompt,  frank  and  joyous  acceptance  of  the  post,  and 
arose  to  depart.  And  again  the  friends  bade  adieu  to  each 
other  with  mutual  and  cordial  expressions  of  affection  and  re- 
spect. 

Marian  was  pleased,  deeply  pleased  with  the  proof  of  confi- 
dence she  had  received,  and  the  prospect  of  occupation  and  of 
independence  that  it  offered.  Her  school  duties  were  expected 
to  commence  upon  the  first  Monday  in  March. 

Ten  or  twelve  days  only  intervened  before  that  day,  and  in 
the  course  of  their  passage,  Marian  received  two  letters  from 
Thurston — the  first  written  upon  the  eve  of  his  sailing  from 
Baltimore,  and  the  second  written  from  the  sea,  and  sent  by  a 
homeward  bound  vessel.  These  letters  were  long  and  elo- 
quent, filled  with  "thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn," 
overflowing  with  devoted  affection  and  ardent  aspirations. 
And  oh !  how  they  were  read,  and  re-read,  and  treasured  by 
Marian  !  She,  in  the  new  blindness  of  her  idolatry,  did  not 
cciiid  that  they  were  subscribed  in  an  assumed  name — Thomas 


884  THE      MASSING      BRIDE. 

Truman — to  which  address  she  was  also  requested  to  direct  her 
answers.  "With  the  treasured  letters  in  her  bosom,  lying  upon 
her  loving  heart,  she  went  about  in  the  golden  mist  of  her  own 
happy  and  devoted  thoughts. 

The  first  Monday  in  March  came,  and  Marian  repaired  to 
the  village  to  meet  the  trustees  of  her  school,  and  to  be  inaugu- 
rated into  her  new  office.  Her  school-room  was  new,  well  built, 
well  aired,  well  furnished,  and  in  every  respect  very  pleasant. 
Her  pupils  comprised  twelve  or  fourteen  young  ladies,  who  had 
already  in  the  Sunday-school  received  the  benefit  of  Marian's 
instructions,  and  who  were  now  prepared  with  loving  reverence 
to  accept  her  as  their  teacher.  To  her  everything  was  made 
agreeable  and  attractive.  The  high  respect  and  confidence  in 
which  she  was  held  by  the  trustees,  the  veneration  and  afl'ection 
with  which  she  was  honored  by  her  pupils,  even  the  pleasant 
locality,  arrangement,  and  appointments  of  her  school-room — 
all  were  subjects  of  congratulation  to  herself,  and  of  thankful- 
ness to  Heaven. 

And  not  the  least  among  the  generous  girl's  reasons  for  plea- 
sure and  gratitude,  was  the  thought  that  her  position  would 
enable  her  to  systematize  the  education  of  little  Miriam,  whom 
she  at  once  resolved  to  take  daily  with  her  to  the  school ;  while 
her  salary  would  afford  her  the  means  of  adding  many  comforts 
to  the  home  and  daily  life  of  Edith. 

Marian's  school  was  soon  brought  into  beautiful  order,  and 
her  days  now  passed  in  serene  happiness.  Every  month  in- 
creased her  usefulness  and  social  importance,  and  gained  her 
new  friends  and  new  honors.  The  school  under  her  charge 
prospered  so  greatly,  and  increased  so  rapidly,  that  it  soon  be- 
come necessary  to  advertise  for  assistants.  And  when  they 
were  found  and  engaged,  Marian  was  at  once  relieved  from  the 
drudgery  of  details,  and  advanced  to  the  post  of  principal. 

In  the  meantime  she  continued  to  receive  letters  from 
"Thomas  Truman,"  who  had  reached  Edinburgh,  and  had  seen 
his  younger  brother,  and  was  then  making  arrangements  for  u 
speedy  return  to  the  United  States,  which  he  hoped  and  ex- 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  385 

peeled  to  reach  about  the  first  of  June.  Marian  had  written 
a  lull  account  of  the  now  academy  for  young  ladies,  and  her  own 
appointment  as  its  principal.  It  was  of  coui'se  very  long,  even 
near  the  last  of  May,  before  she  received  an  answer,  in  which 
he  expressed  his  regret  that  his  Marian  should  be  called  upon 
to  labor — his  grief  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  at  once  to  re- 
lieve her,  and  withal  his  unqualified  approbation  of  any  stej 
she  might  have  thought  proper  to  take,  as  everything  she  die 
was  necessarily  certain  to  be  right.  The  same  letter  conveyed 
to  her  the  joyful  news  that  he  was  just  on  the  eve  of  embarka 
tion  for  the  United  States,  where  he  expected  to  arrive  in  » 
very  few  days  after  her  receipt  of  his  letter.  It  was  Friday 
evening,  on  her  way  from  school,  that  she  received  this  letter, 
and  from  the  moment  of  finishing  its  perusal,  Marian  lived  and 
moved  in  a  happy  dream.  It  was  well  for  her  pupils  that  her 
school  duties  were  over  for  the  week — it  was  well  for  herself 
that  her  ride  back  to  Old  Fields  was  a  long,  solitary  one.  Her 
trance  was  unbroken  until  she  reached  home,  where  she  found 
Mrs.  Waugh  waiting  for  her. 

"  I  have  come  over,  Hebe,  to  invite  you  and  Edith  to  a 
house-warming  at  Luckenough  on  the  first  of  June — next  Mon- 
day, you  know!  And,  mind,  I  will  take  no  refusal,"  said  the 
good  lady  cheerfully,  as  Marian  greeted  her. 

Luckenough  was  now  completed,  the  mansion-house  having 
been  rebuilt  and  newly  furnished  in  the  most  elegant  manner. 
The  family  had  been  settled  in  their  ancient  home  now  about  a 
week,  and  were,  according  to  custom,  about  to  give  a  large 
party. 

"  Tell  me  about  Jacquelina,"  said  Marian,  anxiously,  as  shn 
laid  oft"  her  bonnet  and  sat  down. 

"  What  about  Lapwing,  my  dear?  Oh,  you  refer  tc  the  poor 
child's  resolution  to  remain  with  her  mother  at  Locust  Hill. 
Ah,  my  dear,  what  chance  has  she,  with  all  her  self-will,  to  save 
her  soul  alive,  between  her  mother  on  one  side,  and  the  Commo- 
dore and  old  Grimshaw  on  the  other  ?  Now,  what  do  you  think  ? 
Marv  L'Oiscau  has  actually  let  Locust  Hill,  and  accepted  a 


336  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

home  at  Lnckenough,  for  the  purpose  of  defeating  Jacqueliiia's 
wish  to  remain  with  her  at  that  farm !" 

"No,  no!" 

"  Yes,  yes.  she  has  done  that  very  thing  ! — She  has  actually 
had  the  wicked  heart  to  rent  out  the  very  home  that  her  poor 
child  sacrificed  herself  to  buy  for  her,  rather  than  let  that  home 
afford  a  shelter  to  that  child  in  her  extremity  1" 

"  I  can  scarcely  credit  it !" 

"  My  dear,  never  doubt  that  superstition  and  fanaticism  are 
capable  of  any  degree  of  wickedness!  Lapwing  is  with  us. 
I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  make  the  poor  thing  happy,  even  to  the 
extent  of  trying  to  reconcile  her  to  Doctor  Grimshaw,  though 
that  will  be  a  difficult  and  delicate  matter,  for  the  very  mention 
of  the  subject  throws  her  into  fits,  and  as  for  Grim'  himself,  he 
certainly  is  eroing  crazy.  He  is,  indeed,  Hebe !  And  if  a 
change  don't  come  soon,  he'll  be  a  raving  maniac !  He  will, 
indeed,  Hebe  '  And  no  wonder !  he  has  just  the  gloomy  tem- 
per and  nervous  bilious  temperament,  and  is  placed  in  just  the 
circumstances,  that  make  men  mad.  This  party,  too !  The 
most  indiscreet  thing  that  could  be  imagined  under  the  circum- 
stances. But  the  Commodore  will  have  it  so,  and  it  is  not, 
after  all,  a  thing  of  sufficient  importance  for  me  to  make  a  quar- 
rel about," 

"I  do  not  know,  Mr.  Waugh,  how,  in  the  midst  of  all  this, 
you  maintain  such  good  humor  and  good  health." 

"My  dear,  I  have  a  happy  temperament ;  when  things  can 
he  remedied,  instead  of  repining  I  set  about  remedying  them, 
and  when  they  are  beyond  remedy,  they  are  with  me  beyond 
regret.  Lor,  Hebe !  if  I  had  chosen  to  fret  myself  '  because  of 
evil  doers,'  I  might  have  been  as  thin  as  a  broomstick  by  this 
time!" 

"  Yet,  after  all,  Mrs.  Wangh,  I  suppose  it  does  not  lie  so 
much  in  the  choice  of  your  will  as  in  the  'happy  temperament- 
you  spoke  of?" 

"Yes.  Well,  Hebe,  I  must  go.  You  will  be  sure  to  como 
on  Monday  evening,  for  Lap'.ving's  sake?" 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  387 

"  I  will  be  sure  to  come,  Mrs.  Waugh." 

"  And  try  to  bring  Edith  along.  I  have  brought  her  her 
uncle's  invitation  with  my  own.  But  Edith  is  proud  and  stub- 
born. She  will  not  be  entreated.  You  must  try  to  persuade  her." 

"No,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  said  Edith;  "I  am  not  so,  but  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  enter  Luckenough,  unless  my  uncle 
\vere  first  to  come  here  and  be  reconciled  to  me." 

"What  do  you  call  that  but  pride  and  stubbornness  from  a 
young  person  to  an  old  one?  I  declare  there  never  was  an 
honest,  well-meaning  woman  surrounded  by  such  a  set  of  kins- 
folks as  /  am !  Indeed,  Hebe,  I'm  not  self-righteous,  but  it 
does  seem  to  me  that  there's  not  one  in  the  whole  party  worth 
saving  but  you  and  me,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  as  she  arose,  half- 
laughing,  and  wrapping  her  ample  net  shawl  about  her,  pre- 
pared to  take  leave. 

It  had  long  been  the  desire  of  Marian  to  make  peace  with 
Edith  and  her  uncle,  and  the  most  favorable  opportunity  had 
occurred.  And  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Waugh  had  gone,  she  opened 
the  subject. 

She  begged  her  to  reflect  that  notwithstanding  all  that  had 
occurred,  he  was  still  her  uncle ;  that  he  had  been  her  first  and 
greatest  benefactor ;  that  he  had  filled  a  father's  post  towards 
her ;  that  when  he  had  cast  her  off,  it  was  because  she  had,  by 
her  marriage,  disappointed  him  in  his  most  cherished  wish  ; 
that  now  he  was  an  aged  man,  whose  remaining  days  were  few, 
uncertain,  and  full  of  troubles;  that  though  he  had  been,  and 
still  continued  to  be  violent,  unreasonable  and  oppressive,  yet 
it  better  became  his  young  relatives  who  called  themselves 
Christians,  to  seek,  by  kindness,  by  tolerance,  by  readiness  to 
forgive  and  forget,  and  by  exhibiting  the  loveliness  of  an  oppo- 
site character,  to  ameliorate  the  faults  of  his  own ;  that  there 
were  no  half-measures  in  Christianity,  which  includes  a  perfect 
faith,  hope  and  charity,  a  perfect  willingness  to  forgive,  to  be- 
lieve in,  to  hope  for,  to  work  for,  to  love,  to  redeem,  and  to 
eave  our  enemies — or  is  not  Christianity.  And  all  this  was 
spoken  and  enforced  with  an  eloquence,  truthfulness,  earnest- 


388  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ness  and  momentum  characteristic  of  Marian,  and  carrying 
conviction  with  it.  The  beautiful  girl  had  the  true  "  spell  o'er 
hearts" — great  moral  power.  She  had  seldom  failed  in  her 
eiforts  to  influence  any  one ;  never  in  her  attempts  to  affect 
Edith ;  nor  did  she  intend  to  do  so  now.  She  succeeded  in 
persuading  her  to  forget  her  past  injuries,  and  to  meet  more 
than  half-way  her  uncle's  advances  towards  a  reconciliation,  by 
accepting  his  invitation  to  the  house-warming.  It  was  decided 
that  little  Miriam  also  should  accompany  them. 

And  this  matter  being  arranged,  Marian,  with  her  usual 
cheerful  promptitude,  went  briskly  to  work  with  the  prepara- 
tions. All  that  evening,  and  all  the  next  day,  she  busied  her- 
self with  altering  and  modernizing  Edith's  black  Italian  crape 
robe,  and  in  getting  up  her  own  and  Miriam's  dresses.  Yet, 
busily  as  Marian  worked,  swiftly  as  her  fingers  flew,  quickly 
and  neatly  as  her  various  tasks  were  finished,  all  was  done  me- 
chanically; her  thoughts  were  not  in  her  labors — they  were 
far  away  at  sea,  seeking  out,  hovering  around  the  "  homeward 
bound." 

By  Saturday  night,  all  the  preparations  were  completed, 
and  the  care  for  them  troubled  Marian  no  more,  either  at 
church  on  Sunday,  or  at  her  school-room  on  Monday.  And  in 
part,  as  far  as  her  own  costume  was  concerned,  she  needed  not 
have  troubled  herself  at  any  time,  for  on  her  return  from  school 
on  Monday  afternoon,  she  found,  waiting  for  her  at  home,  a 
large  bandbox,  directed  "  To  MY  HEBE,"  which,  when  opened, 
was  found  to  contain  a  light  and  elegant  evening  dress,  of 
lilac-colored  crape,  finished  with  blonde  lace.  There  were  also 
white  kid  gloves,  white  satin  slippers,  an  embroidered  hand- 
kerchief and  a  beautiful  wreath  of  white  jessamine  flowers. 
Marian  surmised  that  Mrs.  Waugh  had  certainly  stolen  her 
dress  patterns  and  her  shoe  and  glove  measures,  to  have  pro- 
cured such  perfect  fits  as  the  articles  composing  this  costume 
proved  to  be.  There  was  no  possibility  of  refusing  this  dress 
now  that  it  was  purchased,  made  up  and  sent  home,  and  so, 
probably,  Mrs.  Waugh  had  reasoned.  At  all  events,  Mariau 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  389 

felt  obliged,  though  half  unwillingly,  to  accept  the  present. 
She,  therefore,  smilingly  arrayed  her  beautiful  form  in  these 
gay  festive  robes,  and  as  she  gazed  upon  the  reflection  in  the 
glass,  could  but  think  that  never  had  any  dress  so  enhanced 
her  beauty  as  this  one  did — the  delicate,  yet  brilliant,  lilac  hue, 
heightened  by  contrast  the  fairness  of  her  arras  and  bosom,  the 
vivid  bloom  of  her  cheeks  and  lips,  the  azure  blue  of  her  eyes, 
and  the  warm,  rich,  auburn  tint  of  her  tresses — while  its  light  and 
floating  texture  flowed  in  harmony  with  all  her  graceful  motions. 

Mrs.  Waugh's  carriage  was  waiting  below  to  take  them  to 
Lnckenough,  and  she  hurried  down  to  join  Edith  and  Miriam, 
who  were  both  quite  ready. 

Edith  also  looked  very  pretty,  with  her  fair,  pearly  face 
relieved  by  the  slight,  silky,  black  ringlets,  and  the  floating, 
shadowy,  black  crape  dress. 

Little  Miriam  wore  a  black  gauze,  embroidered  with  a  deep 
border  of  crimson  lamma  work  around  the  full,  double  skirts, 
and  a  narrower  one  around  the  short  sleeves  and  the  low  bod- 
dice.  A  slight  wreath  of  crimson  cypress  flowers  was  twined 
around  her  jet  black  hair,  her  shining  black  ringlets  hung  down 
to  her  waist,  and  her  splendid  Syrian  eyes  shone  like  two  stars. 

Marian  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  her  resplendent 
beauty,  stooped  and  caressed  her,  and  told  her  that  she  looked 
like  some  bright  tropical  bird  alighted  down  there  in  a  Mary- 
land cottage. 

Throwing  light  veils  over  their  heads,  and  light  shawls 
around  their  shoulders,  they  entered  the  carriage  and  departed, 
leaving  the  cottage  in  the  sole  charge  of  old  Jenny,  who,  by 
the  way,  too  thoroughly  mistrusted  and  disappr.oved  the  who!-e 
proceeding,  to  utter  one  word  of  comment  upon  their  going, 
until  the  carriage  had  rolled  out  of  sight,  then  she  lifted  up 
both  arms,  and  gave  vent  to  her  feelings  by  exclaiming, 

"  Well,  Lord !  I  nebber  thought  how  arter  all  as  had  corned 
an'  goed,  she'd  gone  to  Old  Nick  agin !     But  it's  all  wanity— 
all  wanity  and  wexation  o'  de  spirit — an'  so  she'll  find  it — 
'deed  she!" 
32* 


390  THE      MISSING      B  11  IDE. 

In  the  meantime  they  were  driven  rapidly  towards  Luck- 
enough,  which  they  reached  at  the  usual  hour  of  country  even- 
ing receptions — early  candle-light. 

The  new  mansion-house  had  been  built  in  exactly  the  style 
of  the  old  one — of  red  stone,  with  three  front  gables.  And 
the  scene  presented  the  usual  appeai'ance  of  country  premises 
upon  the  occasion  of  a  large  evening  party ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
lawn  was  covered,  and  the  avenues  choked  up  with  carriages 
and  conveyances  of  all  sorts,  from  the  capacious  family  car- 
riage of  Colonel  Thornton  and  others,  down  to  the  saddle- 
mules  of  Miss  Nancy  Skamp  and  her  learned  nephew.  The 
mansion  was  blazing  with  light,  and  thundering  with  music, 
and  all  the  entries  aaid  passages  were  crowded  with  coachmen, 
waiting-maids,  grooms  and  footmen  who  belonged  to  the  house, 
or  had  come  in  attendance  upon  some  of  the  company. 

They  alighted  from  the  carriage,  and  made  their  way  through 
this  unpleasant  crowd  to  a  room  on  the  ground  floor,  corres- 
ponding to  that  which  had  once  been  Edith's,  and  where  a 
serving-woman  stood  to  admit  and  wait  upon  them. 

There  were  already  a  crowd  of  ladies  in  the  room,  all  en- 
gaged in  re-arranging  their  toilets.  Edith  soon  settled  her 
simple  widow's  dress,  and  Miriam's  little  fiery  costume.  And 
Marian  had  only  to  shake  out  the  light  falls  of  her  skirts,  settle 
the  fragrant  jessamine  wreath  upon  her  hair,  draw  on  her 
gloves,  and  they  were  ready. 

And  just  as  Marian  was  about  to  send  a  servant  into  the 
saloon  to  ask  Mrs.  \Yangh  to  send  some  gentlemen  to  take 
(hem  iu,  Doctor  Brightwell  aud  Solomon  Weisvnunn  .appeared 
at  the  door  to  offer  their  services.  And  Edith  accepted  the 
arm  of  the  former,  and  Marian  that  of  the  latter,  while  she  led 
little  Miriam  by  the  hand.  And  so  they  entered  the  saloon. 
It  presented  just  the  appearance  that  all  other  country  saloons 
do  in  the  like  circumstances — it  was  redundantly  ornamented 
with  flowers  and  green  vines,  brilliantly  illuminated  with  hang- 
ing chandeliers,  and  furnished  with  seats  running  around  the 
room  for  the  accommodation  of  the  old  people,  the  tiri.-d 


:,: 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  391 

dancers,  and  the  neglected  wall-flowers.  The  floors  were  un- 
carpeted,  but  highly  polished  with  wax,  and  chalked  for  the 
quadrilles. 

Mrs.  Waugh,  in  a  new,  brown  satin  dress,  and  a  white  gauze 
turban,  stood  near  the  door  to  receive  her  guests.  She  has- 
tened forward  to  welcome  her  friends,  and  conduct  them  to 
a  pleasant  seat  up  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  after 
walking  a  little  while  with  Edith,  and  telling  her  how  glad  she 
felt  to  see  her,  she  excused  herself,  and  left  them  to  go  and  meet 
some  other  guests  who  were  just  entering. 

Marian  took  a  survey  of  the  room.  There  were  about  four 
cotillions  on  the  floor.  And  at  the  head  of  one  she  saw  stand- 
ing Jacquelina  and  young  Barnwell — her  own  rejected  suitor. 
Jacquelina  was  even  more  fair  and  fragile  than  ever — she  looked 
like  some  beautiful  transparency.  She  wore  a  dress  of  gossa- 
mer blond  over  pale,  green  silk,  and  around  her  golden  hair 
was  bound  a  string  of  small  pearls,  clasped  above  the  brow, 
with  a  single  emerald.  Few  complexions  could  have  borne  such 
a  dress,  but  there  was  a  vivid  glow  upon  her  cheeks  and  lips, 
and  a  streaming  light  from  her  two  briliant  eyes,  that  were,  if 
possible,  heightened  by  the  cool,  pale  shades  of  her  costume. 
Marian  sighed  deeply  and  sent  up  a  prayer  for  her  peace. 

But  little  time"  had  Marian  to  look  about  her,  before  Mrs. 
Waugh  returned,  bringing  with  her  a  young  gentleman  whom 
she  presented  to  the  young  girl,  and  who  immediately  solicited 
the  honor  of  her  hand  in  the  cotillion  that  was  then  forming. 
Marian  assented  and  gave  her  hand  with  a  smile  that  turned 
the  young  man's  head  at  once. 

But  little  did  Marian  think  or  care,  either  then,  or  afterwards; 
for  whether  she  sat,  or  stood,  or  danced,  or  talked,  or  listened, 
it  was  done  mechanically ;  her  thoughts  and  cares  were  absent 
from  the  passing  scene,  seeking  and  hovering  around  the 
"homeward-bound."  At  last  it  almost  seemed  as  if  she  had 
won  him  spiritually  to  her  side,  for  he  seemed  to  be  with  her 
amid  the  lighted  saloon,  amid  the  sounding  music  and  the 

rouging  revelers,  and  with  the  thought  °f  him  now   came 


392  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

shock  after  shock  of  joy,  galvanizing  her  nerves  and  heart,  and 
sending  the  brilliant  vital  fire  kindling  upon  her  cheek  and  lip, 
and  flashing  under  her  drooping  eyelid. 

Yes !  he  seemed  there  in  presence  with  her,  and  yet — she 
could  scarcely  suppress  a  scream  of  joy,  when  lifting  her  eyes 
she  saw  Thurston  Willcoxen  standing  in  the  room  !  Her  heart 
sprang  and  throbbed  fast,  the  color  ebbed  and  flowed  on  her 
cheeks — her  eyes  smouldered  and  flashed  under  their  lids. 

He  was  standing  talking  to  Mrs.  Waugh  and  the  Commo- 
dore, yet  restlessly  sending  his  glances  roving  over  the  room, 
in  search  of — Marian  knew  whom  !  At  last  his  eyes  found  her, 
met  hers  in  joyous  recognition,  a  smile  of  rapture  lighted  up 
his  face,  and  bowing  hastily  to  his  companions,  he  came  hurry- 
ing, through  the  crowd  to  the  sofa  where  she  sat  with  other 
ladies  and  some  gentlemen.  Oh  !  that  such  a  meeting  should 
happen  in  such  a  place  and  under  such  circumstances  ! 

He  came  up,  and  bowed,  and  shook  hands  with  several  of  the 
persons  near  Marian,  and  who  were  old  acquaintances  of  his 
own.  And  when  he  greeted  Marian,  there  was  nothing  but 
the  crushing  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  the  brief  intense  gaze  of 
his  eyes — that  betrayed  how  much  of  feeling  he  wisely  had  sup- 
pressed. 

As  he  stood  there,  he  was  immediately  surrounded  by  friends 
and  acquaintances,  who  came  to  welcome  him  back,  and  to 
chatter  to  him,  asking  him  a  score  of  questions  about  the  length 
of  his  voyage,  the  weather  he  had  at  sea,  the  time  of  his  arrival, 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Thurston  answered  them  with  as  much  good 
humor  as  he  could  assume,  while  heartily  wishing  them  all  at 
the  antipodes. 

Marian  was  also  surrounded.  Colonel  Thornton,  Mr.  Barn 
well  and  Doctor  Weismann  had  in  turn  found  out  her  seat,  and 
approached  her,  and  now  they  lingered  near  her,  each  with  the 
secret  determination  of  o>/£-lingering  the  others. 

"  Impertinent  puppies  1  I  wonder  how  Miss  Mayfield  jan 
tolerate  them  for  a  moment,"  quoth  Colonel  Thornton  iu  Lis 
heart,  while  he  cast  a  sidelong,  scornful  glance  at  the  two 
young  g'Mitlomon. 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  393 

"  Miserable  old  beau !  I  wonder  he  is  so  ridiculous  as  to 
presume  to  address  a  young  lady,"  sneered  Messrs.  Barnwell 
and  "Weismann. 

Marian  blushed  to  see  the  look  of  animosity  that  passed  be- 
tween them,  and  to  know  herself  the  object  of  their  ill-concealed 
rivalry,  and  being  no  longer  willing  to  endure  a  position  she 
felt  to  be  humiliating,  she  arose,  and  giving  her  hand  to  Thurs- 
ton,  said, 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen,  will  you  please  to  assist  me  in  finding  Mrs. 
Grimshaw  ?" 

With  a  glad  smile  of  surprise  Thurston  bowed,  drew  her 
hand  within  his  arm,  and  they  began  to  thread  their  way 
through  the  crowd. 

"  Thank  you,  dearest,  dearest  Marian — sweet  wife  I  thank 
you  1"  he  whispered  in  a  thrilling  voice,  as  they  went. 

But  the  people  pressed  so  closely,  that  it  was  nearly  impos- 
sible to  speak  a  confidential  word  that  would  not  be  heard  by 
others,  lie  did  manage  to  say  to  her,  in  answer  to  her  fond 
inquiries — 

"Dearest,  I  reached  home  only  this  afternoon.  I  made  an 
errand  over  to  Old  Fields  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  you. 
There  I  learned  that  you  were  here,  and  hither  I  instantly 
hurried,  an  uninvited,  but  I  trust  not  an  unwelcome  guest. 
Oh !  the  demon  !  Here  comes  Doctor  Brightwell,  elbowing 
his  way  through  the  crowd  to  speak  to  me !  How  provoking  ! 
Dear  Marian  1  I  must  see  you  alone  ! 

Before  Marian  could  reply,  Doctor  Brightwell  joined  them, 
and,  grasping  Thurston's  hand  with  a  cordial  grip,  and  smiling 
in  his  face  with  the  sincerest  joy,  began  to  pour  forth  a  stream 
of  welcome,  in  return  for  which,  Thurston  sincerely  wished  him 
at  Jericho.  And  before  the  Doctor  had  done  talking,  Edith 
came  along  in  search  of  Marian,  and  joined  her.  As  she  had 
seen  Thurston  once  before  that  evening,  she  only  nodded  and 
smiled  before  entering  into  the  conversation.  They  all  talked 
together  a  little  while,  and  then  Thurston  pressed  Marian's 
fingers,  with  a  meaning  which  she  must  have  understood,  for  she 
smiled  and  said, 


394  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Xow.  Mrs.  Shields,  pray  excuse  me,  and  take  care  of  our 
dear  Doctor,  while  I  go  to  hunt  up  Mrs.  Grimshaw,  who  has 
been  dancing  so  continuously  that  I  have  had  no  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  her.  And  now  she  is  sitting  down  somewhere, 
and  I  must  find  her." 

"  You  will  not  find  her,  my  dear;  she  has  left  the  room — she 
has  probably  gone  in  to  supper,  where  all  the  company  are 
going  now.  Come,  Doctor  !  Mr.  Willcoxen,  give  your  arm  to 
Miss  Mayfield,  and  precede  us  to  the  supper  room." 

There  was  no  remedy ;  the  company  were  all  going  one  way  ; 
Thurston  knew  very  well  that  if  he  and  Marian  remained  be- 
hind, they  would  excite  remark ,  so  with  a  suppressed  groan, 
he  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  led  the  way.  At  the 
supper-table  it  was  as  bad  as  ever  for  the  lovers.  If  the  viand? 
stopped  the  people's  mouths,  that  circumstance  only  left  their 
ears  the  more  at  liberty  to  hear  all  that  passed.  And  Tharston 
could  speak  no  loving  word  to  Marian.  He  had  no  means  of 
relieving  his  heart,  but  by  occasional  sly  pressures  of  her  hand 
— and,  forgetting  that  he  must  not  express  the  strength  of  his 
love  by  the  strength  of  his  hand,  he  so  clasped  and  crushed  to- 
gether her  fair,  roseate  fingers,  that  Marian  had  other  cause 
than  pleasure  to  remember  it. 

After  supper  it  was  worse  than  ever.  The  little,  incorri- 
gible imp,  Jacquelina,  whom  they  had  set  out  to  seek,  was 
found  then  too  soon ;  for  as  soon  as  she  saw  Thurston  and 
Marian  together,  she  shook  off  Doctor  Grimshaw's  arm,  re- 
quested him  to  keep  his  hateful  figure  out  of  her  sight,  and 
leaving  him  to  digest  his  mortification  and  jealousy  as  he  could, 
hurried  forward  to  join  them,  and  to  welcome  Thurston  with 
an  assumed  eagerness  and  delight,  that  none  but  a  mad  man,  or 
what  is  the  same  thing,  a  jealous  man,  could  ever  mistake  for 
the  "love  that  doth  make  cowards  of  us  all."  And  to  Doctor 
Grimshaw's  rage  and  despair,  and  to  Thurston's  ill  concealed 
vexation,  the  unhappy  elf  passed  her  little  thin  hand  through 
his  idle  arm,  and  remained  with  the  lovers  the  whole  of  the 
evening.  In  a  neighborhood  where  the  most  stringent  and  ar 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  395 

bitrary  social  laws  govern  the  conduct  of  women,  Sans  Sonci 
was  laying  herself  open  to  the  severest  censure,  and  she  knew 
it,  and  was  glad  to  know  it — and  she  seemed  to  delight  in 
taking  more  pains  to  make  people  think  and  speak  evil  of  her. 
than  any  sinner  had  ever  taken  to  conceal  his  sins,  and  make 
the  world  think  well  of  him.  But  she  did  not  succeed  any  bet- 
ter than  the  opposite  sort  of  hypocrites  do.  No  one  thought 
or  spoke  ill  of  her.  The  translucent  purity  of  the  poor  fairy's 
nature  was  too  clear  to  all  except  to  the  passion-blinded  Grira- 
shaw — and  she  could  do  or  say  any  extravagant  thing  that  she 
pleased,  and  have  no  severer  comment  made  upon  her,  than — 
"  How  peculiar,"  "  How  eccentric,"  or  "  That  is  just  exactly  like 
Jacque'iina!  No  one  else  could  do  so  with  impunity." 

Doctor  Grimshaw's  blood  boiled  with  rage.  It  was  with 
difficulty  he  restrained  himself  from  going  and  taking  Jacque- 
lina  by  the  arm,  and  leading  her  from  the  room.  But  he  knew 
very  well  that  if  he  should  do  such  a  thing  as  that,  Jacquelina 
would  fall  into  one  of  her  violent  and  really  dangerous  hysteric 
fits,  and  create  a  scene  in  which  his  dignity  would  be  sure  to 
suffer.  How  long  his  jealousy  and  his  self-respect  might  have 
struggled  for  the  mastery,  and  which  might  have  finally  con- 
quered, is  uncertain  ;  for  the  company  soon  began  to  break  up 
and  disperse,  and  Thurston  Willcoxen,  vexed,  worn  out,  and 
bored  half  to  death  by  the  pretended  favor  of  the  willful  elf. 
arose  and  excused  himself,  and  left  her  and  Marian  sitting 
together. 

Edith  now  came  up,  and  told  Marian  that  her  Aunt  Waugh 
had  insisted  that  they  should  stay  all  night ;  that  little  Miriam 
was  already  in  bed ;  and  that  Mrs.  Waugh  had  promised 
that  the  carriage  should  take  them  back  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. Jacquelina,  now  that  there  was  no  more  mischief  to  be 
done,  let  her  head  gradually  sink  upon  her  hand,  closed  her 
eyes,  and  went  off  into  one  of  those  long,  long  reveries,  apa- 
thies, or  trances,  whichever  they  might  be  called,  into  which  she 
now  so  frequently  fell.  Tte  rooms  were  now  nearly  empty,  the 
company  having  nearly  all  departed.  Thurston  Willcoxen  still 


396  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

lingered  about  the  halls  and  entries,  until  he  saw  Edith  rouse 
Jacquelina,  and  with  much  tenderness  coax  and  s'-sist  the  ei- 
naustecl  girl  to  leave  the  room  and  retire  to  bed.  Then  seeiuq 
Marian  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  he  seized  the  precious  op- 
portunity, re-entered  the  saloon,  and  hurried  to  her  side,  drew 
her  hastily  to  his  bosom,  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  lips,  and  say- 
ing, "  Good  night,  sweetest  and  dearest — I  will  see  you  again 
to-morrow,"  hastened  away  in  time  to  escape  the  observation 
of  Mrs.  Waugh,  who  came  to  look  for  Marian,  and  to  sjiow  her 
to  her  room.  The  chamber  to  which  Mrs.  Waugh  conducted 
her  guest,  adjoined  that  occupied  by  Edith,  and  the  door  of 
communication  was  open  between  them.  When  Mrs.  Waugh 
had  bidden  her  good  night,  and  left  her  to  repose,  Marian  drew 
aside  her  curtains,  and  missed  Miriam  from  the  bed.  Miriam, 
ever  since  her  birth,  had  slept  in  Marian's  arms  ;  this  night,  the 
maid,  Maria,  had,  naturally  enough,  put  the  little  girl  in  her 
mother's  bed,  but  when  Marian  missed  her,  she  went  immedi- 
ately into  Edith's  room,  and,  smilingly  announcing  that  she  had 
come  for  her  baby,  lifted  the  child,  and  carried  her  and  laid  her 
in  her  own  bed.  This,  late  as  was  the  hour,  opened  a  conver- 
sation between  the  friends,  in  the  course  of  which  they  discussed 
the  most  striking  events  of  the  evening,  the  sudden  arrival  of 
Thurston,  the  strange  behavior  of  Jacquelina,  the  great  degree 
of  adulation  lavished  upon  Marian,  and  lastly,  the  meeting  be- 
tween Edith  and  her  long-estranged  uncle. 

"  My  dear  Marian,"  said  Edith,  "his  conciliatory  demon- 
strations were  coarse,  rude  and  offensive  to  me,  and  insulting 
to  the  memory  of  my  husband.  He  excused  his  former  harsh- 
ness, by  reflecting  severely  upon  my  marriage,  and  by  implica- 
tion upon  my  martyred  husband,  which  was  very  hard  to  bear, 
and  it  made  me  regret  that  I  had  entered  the  house. 

"  Do  not  say  so,  dear  Edith  !  his  reflections  cannot  hurt  the 
eaint  in  Heaven,  and  need  not  offend  you.  You  were  right  in 
coming.  And  now  you  must  remember  that  the  old  man,  with 
all  his  years,  is  ignorant  and  blind,  and  you  must  bear  with  hia 
faults;  pity  him,  pray  for  him,  and  love  him,"  said  Marian, 
kissing  Edith's  cheek,  and  bidding  her  good  uight. 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  o9T 

When  she  re-entered  her  own  chamber,  what  was  her  sur- 
prise to  see  Jacquelina  in  her  white  night-gown,  with  her 
yellow  hair  streaming  around  her,  standing  in  the  room. 

"  My  dear  Lina !  what  is  the  matter?  I  thought  you  were 
asleep  long  ago." 

"  I  never  sleep,  Marian." 

Marian  took  her  hand  and  made  her  sit  down  upon  a 
ftofa  and  took  a  seat  by  her  side,  and  began,  with  a  sort  of 
instinctive  mesmerism,  to  stroke  her  temples  and  smooth  her 
hair. 

"  How  did  3rou  get  in,  Lina  ?"  she  asked  ;  "  my  door  leading 
into  the  passage  was  locked." 

"  But  look  there,"  replied  Jacko,  pointing  to  another  door 
directly  opposite  to  that  leading  into  Edith's  room.  "You 
did  not  notice  that, — it  communicates  with  my  room.  These 
three  rooms  are  en  suite,  and  were  intended — ha!  ha!  ha!  ha  ! 
ha!  for  Professor  and  Mrs.  Grimshaw.  He  sleeps  in  the  other 
wing  of  the  building,  Marian.  If  they  had  so  much  as  put  the 
Ogre  in  the  same  side  of  the  house  with  me,  I  should  have 
taken  the  clothes  line,  gone  out,  climbed  the  nearest  tree,  made 
a  noose  of  one  end  of  the  cord,  slipped  it  over  my  head,  fast- 
ened the  other  end  to  a  strong  branch  and  jumped  off." 

Marian  still  calmly  smoothed  her  hair,  and  betrayed  no 
horror  at  her  wild  words,  but  answered  gently, 

"  They  would  not  have  driven  you  to  such  extremity,  nor 
would  you  have  committed  such  an  act.  Your  lips  betray  the 
real  goodness  of  your  heart,  Lina." 

"Don't  call  me  'Lina/  I  can't  bear  it.  Call  me  Jacko, 
Elf,  Monkey,  Imp — anything  to  remind  me  that  I  am  a  fairy 
without  a  heart !  and  I  really  have  no  heart  to  speak  of.  If  1 
ever  had  one  it  was  fragile  as  a  porcelain  vase ;  and  such  as  it 
r-i<i — it  is  broken  now — though  as  the  careless  kitchen  maids 
say — '  it  was  cracked  before.'  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"  No — it  is  only  your  brain  that  is  cracked,  poor  Jacko. 
Your  heart  is  good  and  sound.  I  should  be  sorry  to  believe 

otherwise,"  said  Marian,  laying  the  little  golden  head  against 
o£ 

Ad 


393  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

her  bosom,  aud  stooping  till  her  lips  softly  touched  the  fair, 
round  forehead. 

"I  always  feel  a  little  less  wild  and  wicked  when  I  am  with 
you,  Marian ;  but,  oh !  at  other  times !  at  other  times !  the 
very  demon  seems  to  take  possession  of  me.  Did  you  ever  see 
anybody  try  so  hard  to  get  rid  of  a  good  name  as  I  did  this 
evening?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  If  any  other  woman  in  that  room 
had  behaved  as  I  did,  whew  !  she  would  not  have  had  a  thread 
of  reputation  left.  There  I  was  flirting  as  desperately  as  ever 
I  could  with  Thurston  Willcoxen  the  whole  time,  pretending  to 
be  so  infatuated  with  him  as  to  forget  how  to  behave  myself, 
and  yet  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  contrary  as  calumny  ? 
There  I  was  doing  everything  I  could  think  of  to  get  myself 
slandered,  to  mortify  Grim',  and  nobody  took  the  least  notice, 
or  said  the  least  word  about  it.  And  I  really  do  believe  if  I 
was  to  run  away  with  Thurston  Willcoxen  to-morrow,  they 
would  only  say  it  was  '  one  of  Jack's  whims,'  and  wonder  what 
I'd  do  next.  And  sometimes  /wonder,  too  !  for  I  feel  as  if  a 
fate  I  have  no  power  to  resist  were  pressing  me  on  aud  on  to — . 
I  dread  to  think — what !" 

"  Dear  girl,  there  is  this  that  you  must  do — -justify  the  faith 
people  have  in  your  natural  goodness  and  purity,"  said  Marian, 
caressing  her. 

"  Oh  !  you  don't  know,  Marian.  You  don't  know  how  nearly 
wild  I  am  driven  at  times.  I  do  so  hate  and  fear  the  Ogre. 
Yes,  both  hate  and  fear  him.  And  so  I  am  single-handed  at 
war  with  them  all,  and  sometimes  wildly  tempted  to  turn 
and  fly." 

"  But,  my  dear  Jacquelina.  will  you  suffer  me  to  tell  you  that 
you  yourself  are  wrong  in  >his.  Doctor  Grimshaw  doubtlesa 
acted  ill  when  he  took  advantage  of  your  position,  to  marry  you 
against  your  inclination.  But  you  consented  to  become  his  wife, 
therefore  you  gave  him  claims  and  rights  that  it  is  your  duty  to 
regard." 

"No,  I  didn't!  No,  no!  I  took  care  of  that.  I  merely 
gave  him  my  hand  in  a  nominal  marriage,  to  secure  him  au 


GOLDEN      OPINIONS.  399 

estate,  and  ray  poor  sick  mother  an  independent  living.  No 
more  nor  less  than  just  that." 

"But,  my  dear,  Doctor  Grirashaw  also,  you  see,  has  much  to 
complain  of,  and  that  should  make  you  at  least  forgiving  and 
charitable,  my  dear  child." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  Yes,  he  has  something  to  complain  of!  that 
is  the  best  of  it !  that  is  excellent !  He  is  outwitted,  isn't  he  ? 
The  lawyer  cheated  the  demon,  and  a  girl  cheated  the  lawyer. 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  You  needn't  talk  to  me,  Marian !  they  have  driven 
me  wild  among  them !  And  now  it  is  a  death-struggle  between 
the  fairy  and  the  Ogre  !  Yes,  Marian,  a  death-struggle  !  Look 
at  me  !"  she  said,  suddenly  stripping  up  her  loose  sleeve,  and 
showing  an  arm  so  thin,  fair  and  transparent,  that  Marian's  eyea 
filled  to  see  it.  "Yes!  look !"  said  Jacquelina,  "all  the  flesh 
on  my  bones  is  dissolving  away  as  under  an  evil  charm  !  It  is 
his  evil  eye  that  does  it !  His  eye,  that  shines  like  a  wolf's  in 
the  dark !  His  eye.  that  fastened  upon  me,  even  in  a  lighted 
and  crowded  room,  seems  to  devour  me  !  I  feel  myself  wither- 
ing under  its  burning  and  consuming  glare  !  And  I  declare  to 
you,  that  if  I  happen  to  find  myself  inadvertently  shut  up  in  a 
parlor  with  him,  those  eyes  begin  to  kindle  and  glow,  till  he 
looks  just  like  a  panther  about  to  spring  upon  his  prey.  And 
I !  a  panic  grips  my  heart,  and  deprives  me  of  the  power  of 
jumping  and  leaping  from  the  window,  else  I  should  do  it,  and 
break  my  neck.  But  these  excitements,  dreads,  terrors  and 
panics  are  wearing  me  out,  and  the  Ogre  will  kill  me — that  is 
all.  But  I  wont  kill  you  by  keeping  you  up  forever,  dear 
Marian,  so  good-night!"  And  throwing  her  arms  around 
Marian's  neck,  she  kissed  her,  and  then  disappeared  as  suddenly 
as  she  had  entered. 

And  Marian,  forgetting  herself,  Thurston,  and  everything 
except  Jacquelina's  wretchedness  and  danger,  sank  down  on 
her  knees,  and  prayed  Heaven's  protection,  light  and  grace  for 
the  poor,  half  crazed,  half  broken-hearted,  blind  and  misguided 
girl- 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

SPRING       AND       LOVE. 

"In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast; 
la  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 
In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnished  dove; 
In  the  Spriug  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love." — Tennyson. 

EARLY  in  the  morning  the  carriage  was  brought  to  the  door 
to  take  Edith  and  her  party  home.  And  after  a  hearty  break- 
last,  prepared  by  the  orders  of  Mrs.  "Waugh  for  them  alone, 
they  took  leave  of  that  lady  and  departed.  They  drove  first  to 
the  village  and  left  Marian  at  her  school,  and  then  towards  Old 
Fields. 

To  Marian,  how  slowly  passed  that  summer's  morning. 
Thurston  had  promised  to  see  her  during  the  day ;  he  had  fixed 
no  time  nor  place  for  doing  so,  so  hastily  had  the  appointment 
been  made ;  but  he  knew  where  to  find  her  school-room,  and 
she  half  hoped,  half  feared,  that  despite  the  impolicy  of  the 
step,  he  might  seek  her  there.  And  so  she  could  not  refrain 
from  watching  through  the  windows  the  foot-path  that  led  to 
the  door.  Through  all  the  forenoon,  through  all  the  recess, 
and  through  the  afternoon,  she  watched.  But  he  came  not. 

The  longest  day  comes  sometime  or  another  to  an  end.  And 
at  last  Marian's  work  was  finished,  and  her  school  dismissed. 

Not  having  her  pony,  Marian  was  obliged  to  walk  home. 
She  did  not  regret  the  circumstance,  for  the  afternoon  was 
lovely,  and  the  walk  home  promised  to  be  as  delightful  as  clear 
June  weather,  evening  skies,  south  breezes,  and  forest-paths 
could  combine  to  make  it.  And  more  than  all  was  the  hope 
and  the  fear  of  meeting  Thurston.  Yes,  the  hope  and  the  fear, 
for  though  she  desired  above  all  things  now  to  meet  him,  she 
by  no  means  wished  that  the  woodland  and  water-side  walks  of 
the  preceding  autumn  should  be  renewed.  And  in  Marian's 
(400) 


SPRING      AND      LOVE.  401 

once  serene  bosom,  two  principles,  love  and  prudence,  were 
already  at  war  with  each  other. 

She  had  not  long  to  listen  to  the  debate  they  kept  up  in  her 
mind ;  for  she  had  not  walked  many  yards  down  the  lonely  forest 
footpath,  leading  from  the  village  to  Old  Fields,  before  Thuis- 
ton  suddenly  emerged  from  the  trees  and  joined  her. 

She  started  and  blushed  deeply,  but  he  joyfully  caught  her  to 
his  bosom,  and  kissed  her  till  she  dropped  her  head  and  hid  her 
flushed  cheek  upon  his  shoulder.  Then  he  began  to  speak — 

"  My  Marian,  my  own  Marian,  my  darling,  my  treasure — 
sweet  wife,  sweet  life,"  and  many  fond  epithets  besides.  "  Look 
up — let  me  see  your  dear  face — don't  turn  it  away — it  has  been 
so  long  absent  from  my  eyes,  though  never  from  my  heart. 
Look  up  now." 

Marian  raised  her  head  and  glanced  at  the  face  hanging  ovei 
hers  with  so  much  love.  That  face  had  never  seemed  so  in 
stinct  with  life  and  light;  so  glorious  with  manly  beauty  as  now. 
Involuntarily,  pride,  fondness,  joy  flowed  to  her  countenance 
also,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  for  a  brief  instant ;  but  then 
a  sudden  panic  of  cowardice  overcame  her,  and  down  dropped 
her  head  again  upon  its  resting  place.  He  pressed  her  closer 
to  his  heart,  and  pushed  back  her  bonnet,  and  bent  his  face 
upon  her  soft  and  shining  tresses. 

"  I  want  to  sit  and  talk  to  you  so  much.  Come  now.  Let 
us  go  and  find  the  mossy  dell,  from  which  I  showed  you,  through 
the  vista,  that  beautiful  view  of  the  bay.  I  do  not  care  for  the 
view  now,  though  never  looked  it  lovelier.  I  care  tor  no  beauty 
but  this  which  I  hold  to  my  heart.  Come,  sweet !  let  us  go  to 
the  mossy  dell — it  is  carpeted  with  violets  now,  blue  as  your 
eyes,  and  fragrant  as  your  lips — come,  sweet !"  He  drew  her 
arm  within  his  own  and  led  her  on. 

A  walk  of  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  through  the  bushes 
brought  them  to  the  spot  which  has  been  described  before.  They 
descended  by  the  natural  staircase  of  moss-covered  rocks,  and 
f;at  down  together,  upon  a  bed  of  violets  at  its  foot. 

Before  them,  through  the  canopy  of  over-arching  trees,  was 
33* 


402  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

seen,  like  a  picture  in  its  frame  of  foliage,  a  fine  view  of  the 
open  country  and  the  bay  now  bathed  in  the  purple  haze  ol 
evening. 

But  the  fairest  prospect  that  ever  opened  had  no  more  attrac- 
tion for  Thurston  than  if  it  had  been  a  view  of  chimney  tops 
from  a  back  attic  window.  He  passed  his  right  hand  around 
Marian's  shoulders,  and  drew  her  closer  to  his  side,  and  with 
the  other  hand  began  to  untie  her  bonnet  strings. 

"  Lay  off  this  little  bonnet.  Let  me  see  your  beauteous 
head  uncovered.  There  !"  he  said,  putting  it  aside,  and  smooth- 
ing her  bright  locks.  "  Oh,  Marian !  my  love !  my  queen ! 
when  I  see  only  the  top  of  your  head,  I  think  your  rippling, 
sunny  tresses  your  chief  beauty ;  but  soon  my  eyes  fall  to  the 
blooming  cheek — there  never  was  such  a  cheek — so  vivid,  yet 
so  delicate,  so  glowing,  yet  so  cool  and  fresh — like  a  damask 
rose  bathed  in  morning  dew — so  when  I  gaze  on  it  I  think  the 
blushing  cheek  your  sweetest  charm — ah  !  but  near  by  breathe 
the  rich,  ripe  lips,  fragrant  as  nectarines  ;  and  which  I  should 
swear  to  be  the  very  buds  of  love,  were  not  my  gaze  caught  up 
to  meet  your  eyes — stars ! — and  then  I  know  that  I  have  found 
the  very  soul  of  beauty  !  Oh !  priceless  pearl !  By  what  rare 
fortune  was  it  that  I  ever  found  you  in  these  Maryland 
woods?  Love!  angel!  Marian!  for  that  means  o///"  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  straining  her  to  his  side. 

And  Marian  dropped  her  blushing  face  upon  his  shoulder — 
she  was  blushing  not  from  bashful  love  alone — with  it  mingled 
a  feeling  of  shame,  regret,  and  mistrust,  because  he  praised  so 
much  her  form  and  face ;  because  he  seemed  to  love  her  only 
for  her  superficial  good  looks.  fc>he  would  have  spoken  if  she 
could  have  done  so  ;  she  would  have  said  what  was  on  her  heart 
as  earnest  as  a  prayer  to  say, 

"  Oh,  do  not  think  so  much  of  this  perishable,  outward 
beauty;  accident  may  ruin  it,  sickness  may  injure  it,  time  will 
certainly  impair  it.  Do  not  love  me  for  that  which  I  have  nc 
power  over,  and  which  may  be  taken  from  me  at  any  time — 
which  I  shall  be  sure  to  lose  at  last — love  me  for  somethins: 


SPRING      AND      LOVE.  403 

Oetter  and  more  lasting  than  that.  I  have  a  heart  in  this 
bosom  worth  all  the  rest,  a  heart  that  in  itself  is  an  inner  world 
— a  kingdom  worthy  of  your  rule — a  heart  that  neither  time, 
fortune,  nor  casualty  can  ever  change — a  heart  that  loves  you 
now  in  your  strong  and  beautiful  youth,  and  will  love  you  when 
you  are  old  and  gray,  and  when  you  are  one  of  the  redeemed 
in  Heaven.  Love  me  for  this  heart." 

But  to  have  saved  her  own  soul  or  his,  Marian  could  not  then 
have  spoken  those  words. 

So  he  continued  to  caress  her — every  moment  growing  more 
and  more  enchanted  with  her  loveliness.  There  was  more  of 
passion  than  affection  in  his  manner,  and  Marian  felt  and  re- 
gretted this,  though  her  feeling  was  not  a  very  clearly  defined 
one — it  was  rather  an  instinct  than  a  thought,  and  it  was  latent, 
and  quite  subservient  to  her  love  for  him. 

"Love!  angel!  how  enchanting  you  are,"  he  exclaimed, 
catching  her  in  his  arms  and  pressing  kisses  on  her  cheek  and 
lips  and  neck. 

Glowing  with  color,  Marian  strove  to  release  herself.  "Let 
me  go — let  us  leave  this  place,  dear  Thurston,"  she  pleaded, 
attempting  to  rise. 

"  Why  ?  Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  ?  Why  do  you  wish 
to  leave  me?"  he  asked,  without  releasing  his  hold. 

"It  is  late!  Dear  Thurston,  it  is  late,"  she  said,  in  vague 
alarm. 

"That  does  not  matter — /am  with  you." 

''  They  will  be  anxious  about  me,  pray  let  us  go  !  They  will 
be  so  anxious!"  she  said,  with  increasing  distress,  trying  to  get 
away.  "  Thurston !  Thurston  !  You  distress  me  beyond  mea- 
sure," she  exclaimed  in  great  trouble. 

But  he  stopped  her  breath  with  kisses. 

Marian  suddenly  ceased  to  struggle,  and  by  a  strong  effort 
of  will  she  became  perfectly  calm.  And  looking  in  his  eyes, 
with  her  clear,  steady  gaze,  she  said, 

"  Thurston,  I  have  ceased  to  strive.  But  if  you  are  a  man 
*)f  honor,  you  will  release  me  " 


404  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

His  arms  dropped  from  around  her  as  if  he  had  been  struck 
dead. 

Glad  to  be  free,  Marian  arose  to  depart.  Thurston  sat  still 
— his  fine  countenance  overclouded  with  mortification  and  anger. 
Marian  hesitated  ;  she  knew  not  how  to  proceed.  He  did  not 
offer  to  rise  and  attend  her.  At  length  she  spoke. 

;'  Will  you  see  me  safely  through  the  woods,  Thurston  ?"• 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Thurston,  it  is  nearly  dark — there  are  several  runaway 
negroes  in  the  forest  now,  and  the  road  will  not  be  safe  for  me." 

Thurston  was  silent  and  sullen. 

"  Good-night,  then,"  she  said. 

"Good-night,  Marian." 

She  turned  away  and  ascended  the  steps  with  her  heart  filled 
nearly  to  bursting  with  grief,  indignation,  and  fear.  That  he 
should  let  her  take  that  long,  dark,  dangerous  walk  alone !  it 
was  incredible !  she  could  scarcely  realize  it,  or  believe  it !  Her 
unusually  excited  feelings  lent  wings  to  her  feet,  and  she  walked 
swiftly  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  then  was  forced  to 
pause  and  take  breath.  And  then  every  feeling  of  indignation 
and  fear  was  lost  in  that  of  sorrow,  that  she  had  wounded  his 
feelings,  and  left  him  in  anger.  And  Marian  dropped  her  face 
into  her  open  hands  and  wept.  A  step  breaking  through  the 
brushwood  made  her  start  and  tremble.  She  raised  her  head 
with  the  attitude  of  one  prepared  for  a  spring  and  flight.  It 
was  so  dark  she  could  scarcely  see  her  hands  before  her,  but  as 
the  step  approached,  a  voice  said, 

"Fear  nothing,  Marian,  I  have  not  lost  sight  of  you  since 
you  left  me,"  and  Thurston  came  up  to  her  side. 

With  a  glad  smile  of  surprise  Marian  turned  to  greet  him, 
holding  out  her  hand,  expecting  him  to  draw  it  through  his 
arm  and  lead  her  on.  But  no,  he  would  not  touch  her  hand 
Lifting  his  hat  slightly,  he  said, 

"  Go  forward  if  you  please  to  do  so,  Marian.    I  attend  you." 

Marian  went  on,  and  he  followed  closely.  They  proceeded 
in  silence  for  some  time.  Now  that  she  knew  that  he  had  not 


SPRING      AND      LOVE.  405 

Jr-ft  her  a  moment  alone  in  the  woods,  she  felt  more  deeply 
grieved  at  having  so  mortified  and  offended  him.  At  last  she 
spoke. 

"  Pray,  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  dear  Thurston." 

"  I  am  not  angry  that  I  know  of,  fair  one ;  and  you  do  me 
too  much  honor  to  care  about  my  mood.  Understand  me  once 
for  all.  I  am  not  a  Doctor  Grimshaw,  in  any  phase  of  that 
gentleman's  character.  I  am  neither  the  tyrant  who  will  perse- 
cute you  to  exact  your  attention,  nor  yet  the  slave  who  will 
follow  and  coax  and  whine  and  wheedle  for  your  favor.  In 
either  character  I  should  despise  myself  too  much,"  he  answered 
coolly. 

"Thurston,  you  are  deeply  displeased,  or  you  would  not 
speak  so,  and  I  am  very,  very  sorry,"  said  Marian  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself  about  me,  fair  saint !  I  shall  trouble 
you  no  more  after  this  evening!" 

What  did  he  mean  ?  What  could  Thurston  mean  ?  Trouble 
her  no  more  after  this  evening !  She  did  not  understand  the 
words,  but  they  went  through  her  bosom  like  a  sword.  She  did 
not  reply — she  could  not.  She  wished  to  say, 

"  Oh,  Thurston,  if  you  could  read  my  heart — how  singly  it  is 
devoted  to  you — how  its  thoughts  by  day,  and  dreams  by  night 
are  filled  with  histories  and  images  of  what  I  would  be,  and  do 
or  suffer  for  you — of  how  faithfully  I  mean  to  love  and  serve 
you  in  all  our  coming  years — you  would  not  mistake  me,  and 
get  angry,  because  you  would  know  my  heart."  But  these 
words  Marian  could  not  have  uttered  had  her  life  depended 
on  it. 

"  Go  on,  Marian,  the  moor  is  no  safer  than  the  forest ;  I  shall 
atttnd  you  across  it." 

And  they  went  on  until  the  light  from  Old  Field  Cottage  was 
visible.  Then  Marian  said, 

"  You  had  better  leave  me  now.  They  are  sitting  up  and 
watching  forme." 

"  Xo  !    Go  on  ;  the  night  is  very  dark.    I  must  see  you  to  the 


406  THE       MISSING       BRIDE. 

They  walked  rapidly,  and  just  as  they  approached  the  house, 
Marian  saw  a  little  figure  wandering  about  on  the  moor,  and 
which  suddenly  sprang  towards  her  with  an  articulate  cry  of 
joy !  It  was  Miriam,  who  threw  herself  upon  Marian  with 
such  earnestness  of  welcome,  that  she  did  not  notice  Thurston, 
•who  now  raised  his  hat  slightly  from  his  head,  with  a  slight  nod, 
&nd  walked  rapidly  away. 

"  Here  she  is,  mother !  Oh !  here  she  is !"  cried  Miriam, 
pulling  at  Marian's  dress,  and  drawing  her  in  the  house. 

"  Oh !  Marian,  how  anxious  you  have  made  us !  Where  have 
you  been  ?"  asked  Edith,  in  a  tone  half  of  love,  half  of  vexation. 

"  I  have  been  detained,"  said  Marian,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  cottage  room  was  very  inviting.  The  evening  was  just 
chilly  enough  to  make  the  bright  little  wood  fire  agreeable.  On 
the  clean  hearth  before  it  sat  the  tea-pot  and  a  covered  plate  of 
toast  waiting  for  Marian.  And  old  Jenny  got  up  and  sat  out 
a  little  stand,  covered  it  with  a  white  napkin,  and  put  the  tea 
and  toast,  with  the  addition  of  a  piece  of  cold  chicken  and  a 
saucer  of  preserves  upon  it.  And  Marian  laid  oft"  her  straw 
bonnet  and  muslin  scarf,  and  sat  down  and  tried  to  eat,  for 
affectionate  eyes  had  already  noticed  the  trouble  of  her  counte- 
nance, and  were  watching  her  now  with  anxiety. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  have  an  appetite,  dear ;  what  is  the 
matter? "asked  Edith. 

"lam  not  very  well,"  said  Marian,  rising  and  leaving  the 
table,  and  refraining  with  difficulty  from  bursting  into  tears. 

"It's  dat  ar  cussed  infunnelly  party  at  Lockemup — dat's 
what  it  is !"  said  Jenny,  as  she  cleared  away  the  tea  service — 
•'  a-screwin'  up  tight  in  cusseds  an'  ball-dresses !  an'  a-danciu'  all 
night  till  broad  daylight !  'sides  heavin'  of  ever  so  much  un- 
wholesome 'fectionary  trash  down  her  t'roat — de  constitution  :>b 
de  United  States  hisself  couldn't  stan'  sich!  much  less  a  ddicy 
young  gall!  I  'vises  ov  you,  honey,  to  go  to  bed." 

"Indeed,  Marian,  it  was  too  much  for  you  to  lose  your  rest 
all  night,  and  then  have  to  get  up  early  to  go  to  school.  You 
should  have  had  a  good  sleep  this  morning.  And  then  to  be 


SPRING     AND     LOVE.  407 

detained  so  late  this  evening.  Did  you  have  to  keep  any  of  the 
girls  in,  or  was  it  a  visit  from  the  trustees  that  detained  you?" 

"Neither,"  said  Marian,  nervously,  "but  I  think  I  must  take 
Jenny's  advice  and  go  to  bed." 

Marian  arose  and  lighted  a  candle,  and  bidding  all  good-night, 
went  up  stairs,  followed  by  Miriam.  She  undressed  the  child 
and  put  her  to  bed,  and  then  went  to  bed  herself.  She  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  drawing  the  little  girl  up  to  her  bosom,  and 
going  to  sleep  with  her  in  her  arms.  But  this  night  she  kissed 
the  child  and  turned  over  away  from  her,  to  be  alone  with  her 
own  thoughts — to  review  what  had  passed  that  evening,  and  see 
what  it  was  that  she  had  done  wrong  to  leave  behind  this  dread- 
ful, dreadful  aching  of  the  heart — this  insufferable  sense  of  loneli- 
ness and  desolation.  She  thought  over  all  that  had  occurred,  bnt 
could  not  find  herself  guilty  of  any  evil  act  or  word  that  should 
have  entailed  this  insupportable  suffering.  She  knew  that  she 
had  done  right.  Yet  saying  this  over  to  herself,  any  number 
of  times,  did  not  tend  to  allay  the  heart-ache.  She  had  so  much 
longed  for  his  return.  Well !  he  had  returned,  and  what  was  the 
result  to  her  ?  Why,  that  they  were  more  estranged  than  when, 
the  Atlantic  had  divided  them,  and  she  was  more  unhappy  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  all  her  life  before.  Their  parting,  and  the 
months  of  separation,  had  never  grieved  her  as  this  estrange- 
ment did — oh!  nothing  like  it!  "After  this  evening  I  will 
trouble  ytvi  no  more,"  he  had  said.  Ah  !  what  did  he  mean  by 
that?  What  was  the  extent  of  his  meaning?  Sigh  after  sigh 
agitated  her  bosom — tear  after  tear  swelled  under  her  eyelids, 
and  slid  down  her  cheeks,  until  the  pillow  under  her  face  was  wet 
with  them.  So  engrossed  was  she  by  her  own  grief,  that  she 
did  not  notice  that  her  sighs  were  echoed  from  the  little  bosom 
of  the  child  by  her  side.  She  did  not  even  know  that  Miriam 
\vas  awake,  until  at  last  she  felt  a  little  hand  pass  softly  over  hei 
face  and  feel  her  eyes,  and  a  little  sad  voice  say, 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Marian  ?  Please  don't  cry.  I  love  you 
so  much." 

Then  Marian  suddenly  turned  over,  and  gathered  the  child  to 


408  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"My  darling — how  selfish  in  me  to  turn  away  from  my  loving 
child.  And  have  you  been  lying  awake,  watching  with  me, 
little  one  ?  Couldn't  you  sleep  out  of  Marian's  arms  ?  Well, 
then,  now  close  your  dark  eyes,  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  But  will  you  go  to  sleep,  too,  Marian  ?" 

"  Yes,  love,  I  will  try.  Never  mind  my  tears — something 
troubled  me,  this  evening,  but  it  is  nothing  that  should  vex  yon, 
or  that  you  can  help  at  all,  so  go  to  sleep." 

Miriam  was  an  obedient  little  creature,  and  never  dreamed  of 
disputing  Marian's  directions,  so  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  lay 
perfectly  still,  while  Marian  put  a  strict  guard  upon  herself, 
that  no  tear  or  sigh  should  escape  her,  and  disturb  the  child. 

But,  oh,  how  she  longed  to  go  and  weep  in  some  solitary 
place,  where  her  tears  might  fall  without  dropping  upon  and 
blistering  another  heart. 

At  last  the  blessing  "  God  givethhis  beloved, "fell  upon  both 
maiden  and  child.  So  that  when  Edith  came  up  to  bed,  and  ap- 
proached them  with  a  shaded  candle,  she  found  them  fast  asleep, 
still  locked  in  each  other's  arms.  She  did  not  look  closely 
enough  to  see  that  Marian's  face  was  pale,  and  the  tear-drops 
were  hanging  on  her  eyelashes,  nor  did  she  stay  long  enough  to 
note  the  frequent  shuddering  sighs  that  shook  her  bosom. 

Marian's  grief  had  followed  her  into  the  land  of  dreams.  And 
when  she  awoke  in  the  morning,  it  was  the  first  thing  that  met 
her  in  the  world  of  reality.  It  was  with  a  heavy  and  an  anxious 
heart  that  she  arose  and  dressed  herself,  partook  of  a  slight 
breakfast  and  set  out  for  school. 

Miriam,  who  had  stayed  home  the  day  before,  to  rest  herself 
after  the  party,  now  accompanied  her.  They  rode  the  pony — 
Miriam  sitting  upon  the  crupper,  behind.  As  they  reached 
the  cross-roads,  at  the  entrance  of  the  woods,  Marian's  enger 
gaze  went  in  all  directions,  in  the  vain  hope  of  seeing  Thurston 
near  their  old  trysting  place.  He  was  nowhere  in  sight,  and 
with  a  heart  that  grew  every  moment  heavier,  Marian  rode  on, 
looking  wistfully  up  the  path,  longing  for  his  appearance. 
Vcsterdny  afternoon,  coming  along  this  very  path,  she  had 


SPRING      AND      LOVE.  409 

both  hoped  and  feared  to  meet  him.  But  now  the  instinct  of 
prudence  was  entirely  lost  in  the  anxiety  she  felt  to  see  him, 
and  be  friends  with  him  again.  They  rode  the  whole  distance, 
and  reached  the  school-room  without  having  met  one  single 
being.  It  were  tedious  to  tell  how  heavily  passed  that  day  to 
Marian.  But  one  faint  hope  sustained  her — that  of  seeing 
Thurston  on  her  way  home  again.  At  last  the  school  was  dis- 
missed, and  she  and  Miriam  set  out  for  the  cottage.  She  rode 
very  slowly,  frequently  looking  before,  and  turning  to  look  be- 
hind, but  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen.  So  slowly  she  rode, 
that  it  was  after  sunset  when  they  reached  Old  Fields.  And 
Edith  said, 

"  Indeed  I  would  not  make  a  slave  of  myself,  and  keep  the 
school  in  so  late,  Marian.  If  the  pupils  didn't  know  their  les- 
sons, they  might  go  home  without  saying  them,  for  me." 

But  Marian  turned  away  in  mournful  silence,  more  heart-sick 
than  before — wishing  more  than  ever  for  some  solitary  place, 
where  she  might  weep  unnoticed  and  unquestioned. 

As  passed  this  day,  so  passed  the  next  one — beginning  in, 
the  same  feverish  anxiety — ending  in  the  same  heavy  disap- 
pointment. 

Friday  came. 

"  Surely,  surely  Thurston  will  see  me  to-day,"  she  said,  as 
she  set  out  for  the  school — "  he  knows  that  it  is  Friday,  and 
that  to-morrow  there  will  be  no  opportunity." 

She  said  this  over  so  many  times,  that  she  persuaded  herself 
it  must  be  as  she  wished.  And  never  had  the  hours  seemed  to 
drag  so  wearily  as  upon  this  last  day.  And  when  she  set  out 
to  walk  home,  leading  little  Miriam,  it  was  with  the  vigilant 
impatience  of  one  certain — yet  in  anxious  haste  to  meet  him 
whom  she  sought.  But  every  mile  that  brought  her  nearer 
liume,  weighed  down  her  heart,  and  when,  at  last,  without 
having  seen  him,  she  reached  Old  Fields,  she  entered  the 
house,  and  without  stopping  to  speak  to  Edith,  passed  up 
stairs,  sank  on  her  knees  by  the  bed,  buried  her  face  in  the 
roverlet,  and  gave  wav  to  a  convulsive  fit  of  grief.  The  gust 


410  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

of  tears  and  sobs  relieved  her  overcharged  bosom,  and  then  she 
sat  down  and  tried  to  reason  with  herself. 

"  What  is  this  that  has  come  over  my  life,  and  taken  from 
me  the  control  of  my  own  fate  and  peace  of  mind  ?  A  little 
while  ago  I  did  not  know  Thurston — my  life  was  perfect  in 
itself  without  him.  I  stood  upon  my  own  feet — strong,  happy, 
calm,  self-possessed  and  self-reliant — supporting  myself  and 
supporting  others — needing  no  comfort,  yet  able  to  comfort 
others — lone  but  free! — now,  heart  and  sonl  and  spirit — all 
that  is  best  of  me — have  gone  out  of  my  own  possession,  and 
into  another's — and  peace  that  nothing  could  disturb  before,  is 
now  at  the  mercy  of  another's  smile  or  frown.  Should  this  be 
so?  Is  this  worthy  of  an  intellectual — an  immortal  being? 
No,  no  !  no,  no  I  it  must  not  be !  I  who  have  done  no  wrong, 
must  indulge  no  vain  regrets.  I  who  have  lectured  others, 
must  now  '  reck  my  own  rede.'  " 

It  was  very  easy  so  to  reflect  and  so  to  resolve,  just  after  her 
heart  had  been  relieved  and  exhausted  by  a  hearty  fit  of  weep- 
ing— and  acting  in  the  new  strength,  Marian  arose,  bathed  her 
face,  smoothed  her  hair,  arranged  her  dress,  and  went  below 
stairs,  where,  in  the  keeping-room,  the  tea-table  was  just  set, 
while  the  tea-kettle  sung  upon  the  hearth. 

It  was  a  comfortable,  cheering  scene,  and  Marian  resolved 
to  enjoy  it  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  do.  And  during 
the  pleasant  little  bustle  of  the  tea-table,  she  succeeded  well 
enough,  but  when  that  was  all  over,  and  she  took  her  needle 
work  to  sit  down  by  the  little  stand  and  sew,  the  tide  of  love 
and  grief  began  to  flow  back  upon  her  heart,  filling  her  bosom 
with  longings  impossible  to  silence.  And  she  bent  lower  and 
lower  over  her  work,  and  turned  farther  and  farther  from  the 
light,  as  tear  after  tear  gathered  under  her  white  lids  and  stole 
down  her  cheeks.  At  last,  unable  longer  to  suppress  an  out- 
break of  sorrow,  she  arose  hastily,  folded  up  her  work,  and 
with  a  brief  good-night  to  Edith,  hurried  up  the  stairs. 

Edith  looked  after  her  in  anxiety. 

"  I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  with  Marian?"  she  said. 


SPRING      AND      LOVE.  411 

"  Dem  ar  wexatious,  aggroawokin'  school  galls !  deras  urn  I 
I  wish  how  sne  nebber  tetched  to  de  funnelly  school-keepin'. 
School  galls  is  honey-coolers,  chile  !  dey  is.  1  knows.  Lors  I 
when  I  lib  lay-sister  long  o'  de  nuns,  at  der  school,  dem  are 
school  galls  a'most  driv  me  rampiu'  mad !  I  had  to  lebe,  'deed 
me  !  I  broke  de  wows  an'  run  a\vay  !  'deed  me  !  I  jes  tell  ole 
marse,  sell  me  to  Georgy ;  put  me  out  in  de  fiel',  unnerneaf  of 
an  oberseer ;  but  for  Lord  sake  don't  put  me  unnerneaf  of  a 
passel  of  'stractin'  school  galls — don't!  else  I  jes  heave  myself 
right  away — dar  1  He  hear  me  good !  an'  if  he  didn't  like  it, 
he  might  jes  lump  it.  He  t'rowed  his  'fernal  ole  crutch  at  my 
head — 1  dodged,  an'  it  smashed  right  trew  de  winder  glass— 
an'  sarve  him  right,  too  1  Lord  knows  what  de  forsook  ok 
sinner  would  a  done  nex',  if  ole  mist'  hadn't  o'  come  in 
/  didn't  care  I  'deed  me  1  I  wa'nt  half  as  feared  o'  him  as  I 
was  o'  dem  ar  tarrifyin',  rip-stavin'  school  galls — dar!" 

Edith  did  not  seem  to  be  satisfied  with  Jenny's  explanation 
of  Marian's  distress,  and  before  the  old  woman's  wandering 
discourse  was  finished,  she  had  left  the  room  and  gone  up  stairs. 

Marian  heard  her  coming  and  hastily  stilled  her  sobs,  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  assumed  a  calmness  she  was  very  far  from 
realizing.  Edith  approached,  and  put  her  qnus  around  her. 

"  My  dear  Marian,  what  is  the  matter?  What  is  this  that 
has  troubled  you  these  three  or  four  days  ?  Are  you  in  an/ 
difficulty  with  your  patrons  ?  Please  tell  me." 

"  No,  no,  my  relations  with  my  pupils  and  their  parents  are 
of  the  plcasantest  character,  I  should  be  sorry  if  any  one  should 
think  otherwise." 

"  What  is  it  then  that  troubles  you,  Marian  ?" 

"  I  am  out  of  spirits,  Edith.  But  I  have  one  favor  to  beg 
of  you — will  you  grant  it  to  me  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will,  Marian.  I  promise  you  blindly  before 
you  teii  me  what  it  is." 

"It  is  that  you  will  never  question  me  as  to  the  cause  of  my 
moods." 

Edith  looked  hurt — so  much  so  that  Marian  quickly  added, 


412  T  JI  E       MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Dear  Edith,  forgive  me,  but  you  know  one  has  sometimes 
variable  spirits,  imaginary  troubles,  if  you  please  to  call  them 
so — fantastical  ones,  if  you  like  that  term  better — but  which 
they  are  half  ashamed  to  own,  and  cannot  brook  to  display.  I 
hope  you  understand  me,  and  are  not  offended  with  me,  Edith." 

"She  has  permitted  herself  to  form  an  unhappy  attachment," 
thought  Edith,  stumbling  very  near  the  truth.  And  from  that 
time  forth  for  many  weeks  Edith  forbore  to  question  Marian. 

The  next  day,  Saturday,  Marian  busied  her  hands  with  many 
domestic  duties,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart  and  struggled  for 
composure  and  cheerfulness.  But  all  the  philosophy  she  could 
bring  to  her  aid  failed  to  comfort  her  as  much  as  one  little  hope 
• — that  of  seeing  him  at  church  the  next  day. 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  see  him  there,  and  then  I  shall  know  what 
all  this  means.  Yes,  then  I  shall  know  my  fate.  And  any- 
thing is  better  than  this  suspense.  Oh,  that  to-morrow  were 
come !" 

The  Sabbath  dawned  at  last — a  beautiful,  a  glorious  day,  the 
first  Sunday  in  June.  Neither  Edith  nor  Miriam  went  from 
home  that  morning,  but  Marian  sat  out  early  for  the  village. 
She  walked  rapidly  until  she  reached  the  cross-roads,  where 
Tliurston  had  so  gj|ten  waited  to  join  her — then  she  slackened 
her  pace,  and  looked  around— still  expecting  to  see  him  some- 
where near.  But  he  was  nowhere  visible.  She  walked  slowly 
through  the  woods,  still  hoping  to  be  overtaken  ;  but  in  vain. 

"  Well !  no  matter — I  shall  see  him  at  church — I  know  I 
shall  see  him  at  church,"  said  she,  quickening  her  walk.  She 
soon  reached  the  village,  and  hastened  to  the  chapel,  where  sho 
arrived  barely  in  time  to  meet  her  Sunday  school  class.  She  still 
lelt  sure  of  seeing  Thurston  at  church,  and  her  impatience  made 
the  morning  session  of  the  Sunday  school  the  longest  two  hours 
sho  had  ever  spent  in  her  life.  At  length  it  was  over,  and  the 
pupils  were  dismissed,  and  the  teachers  went  into  their  pews 
Marian  sought  her  own,  and  sat  down  and  opened  her  prayer- 
book  to  mark  the  lessons  and  psalms  and  collects  for  the  day  ; 
but  her  eyes  would  wander  from  her  book  to  the  doors  through 
which  the  congregation  was  continuously  pouring  into  the  aisles. 


SPUING      AND      LOVE.  413 

But  Thurston  appeared  not  among  them.  Still — still  she 
watched  and  hoped.  The  church  was  at  length  filled — the 
organ  played  the  prelude — the  minister  appeared  in  the  aisle  — 
walked  slowly  up,  ascended  the  steps  leading  into  the  pulpit — 
opened  the  book  and  commenced  the  services  by  giving  out  the 
opening  hymn.  The  sacred  song  was  sung — the  first  prayer 
followed,  and  still  the  watched-for  came  not.  The  second  hymn 
nnd  the  litany  succeeded,  and  yet  he  came  not.  The  Bible  was 
opened,  the  text  taken,  and  the  sermon  commenced,  and  Marian 
resigned  all  hope  of  seeing  him  that  day  either.  And  oh ! 
who  can  conceive  the  soul-sickness  that  prevented  her  from 
hearing  one  word  of  the  discourse  that  followed. 

The  morning  service  was  at  last  over;  but  Marian  could  not 
have  told  the  subject  of  the  sermon  if  she  had  been  asked. 
While  the  congregation  was  dispersing,  Miss  Thornton  ap- 
proached Marian. 

"  You  walked  here,  I  believe,  my  dear  Miss  Mayfield  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Marian.  "  It  was  a  lovely  morning,  and  I  pre- 
ferred to  walk." 

"  Will  you  do  us  the  pleasure,  my  dear,  to  go  home  with  us 
and  dine  !  It  will  give  my  brother  and  myself  the  greatest  de- 
light if  you  will.  We  shall  return  to  church  in  the  afternoon, 
so  that  you  need  not  miss  the  evening  services." 

"I  thank  you  sincerely  for  your  kindness,  Miss  Thornton, 
but  I  have  a  class  of  colored  children  that  I  meet  at  noon," 
said  Marian,  pressing  the  lady's  hand. 

"But  you  should  not  do  that,  my  dear.  You  really  over- 
work yourself.  Marian,  you  are  losing  the  roses  from  your 
cheeks.  Even  you,  incredible  as  it  seems.  That  will  not  do, 
my  dear,"  said  Miss  Thornton,  looking  with  anxious  affection 
in  Marian's  face  ;  "  no,  that  will  not  do.  Really,  Miss  Xancy 
Skamp  should  take  that  class  of  little  negroes  off  your  hands. 
It  would  just  suit  such  an  old  body  as  herself,  and  I  think  she 
ought  to  offer  to  do  it.  I  really  wonder  the  useless  old  crea- 
ture is  not  afraid  of  being  cut  down  as  a  'cumberer  of  the 
ground  '  " 

26 


414  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  I  do  not  think  Miss  !N"ancy  quite  fitted  for  the  task,  and  M 
for  me,  work,  even  hard,  continuous  work,  agrees  with  rue. 
But  you  are  very  kind,  Miss  Thornton,  and  the  interest  you  are 
good  enough  to  take  in  me,  helps  to  make  out  my  sum  of  hap- 
piness," said  the  young  girl,  warmly. 

"Ah,  Marian,  if  you  would  but  make  such  an  answer  to  my 
brother — if  you  would  but  let  the  interest  he  takes  in  you  make 
you  happy  1  If  you  would  but  listen  to  him." 

"Your  brother  does  me  unmerited  honor,  Miss  Thornton." 

Here  the  approach  of  the  lady's  carriage  put  an  end  to  the 
conversation.  She  kissed  Marian  and  entered  her  coach. 

Before  the  lady's  carriage  had  rolled  away,  Marian  re-entered 
the  church  to  assemble  her  little  class.  She  felt  a  strong  temp- 
tation to  leave  them,  and  walk  about  the  village,  to  breathe  the 
fresh  air,  and  possibly  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Thurston  some- 
where. But  she  resisted  the  desire,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the 
duties  in  hand.  And  if  there  had  been  a  time  that  week  when 
the  weight  and  pain  were  lightened  from  her  heart,  it  was  while 
she  was  engaged  in  this  work  of  charity.  Her  class  was  dis- 
missed half-an-hour  before  the  time  for  afternoon  service  to 
commence.  And  that  half-hour  was  occupied  by  friends  and 
acquaintances  who  came  to  shake  hands,  chat  and  laugh  before 
going  in  to  take  their  seats  in  church.  At  last  Marian  was 
free,  and  with  her  eyes  cast  sadly  down  to  the  floor,  walked  up 
the  aisle  and  entered  her  pew  and  kneeled  down  for  her  private 
prayer,  as  is  the  custom  among  Episcopalians.  When  she  arose 
to  turn  and  sit  down,  her  eyes  fell  upon  Thurston,  seated  in  a 
pew  opposite.  She  started,  and  could  scarcely  repress  an  ex- 
clamation of  joy  as  she  saw  him  She  sat  down,  and  kept  her 
eyes  a  moment  on  him.  He  did  not  raise  his  to  look  towards 
her;  he  sat  with  his  fine  head  a  little  thrown  back,  and  his  eyes 
iixed  upon  the  minister.  Marian  heard  scarcely  one  word  the 
holy  man  said ;  she  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  Thurston,  but  he 
seemed  totally  unconscious  of  her  presence — handsome,  cheer 
ful,  nonchalant,  and  turning  his  careless  glance  from  the  minis- 
ter's face,  to  rest  a  moment  upon  some  pretty  girl,  or  quaintly 


SPRING      AND      LOVE.  415 

dressed  old  woman,  or  some  other  object  of  trivial,  passing  in- 
terest or  curiosity,  but  never  by  any  chance  towards  Marian's 
pew. 

Her  mental  distress  was  beginning  to  make  itself  felt  in  phy- 
sical suffering — in  the  filling  and  rising  of  her  heart,  the  chok- 
ing sensation  in  her  throat,  the  fullness  and  throbbing  of  her 
head — the  dimness  of  her  eyes — the  dizziness  of  her  brain,  that 
made  the  whole  scene  swim  before  her — the  faintness,  that 
caused  her  nearly  to  drop.  All  these  things  she  had  to  strug- 
gle against,  during  the  whole  of  that  afternoon  service. 

At  last,  while  the  congregation  were  on  their  knees  for  the 
final  prayer,  Marian  arose  softly,  and  silently  withdrew  from  the 
church.  She  could  not  bear  that  any  one  should  see  or  speak 
to  her  in  her  present  state — as  would  have  been  the  case  had 
she  waited  the  dismissal  of  the  congregation.  She  drew  he1* 
veil  over  her  face  and  left  the  church  door. 

A  little  while  she  stopped,  and  leaned  against  the  wall  to 
gather  strength,  and  then  hearing  the  people  in  the  church  be- 
ginning to  move,  and  fearing  they  were  coming  out,  she  hurried 
away — anywhere— anywhere  where  solitude  would  give  her  the 
liberty  to  weep  unnoticed  and  unquestioned.  He  had  known 
that  she  was  in  the  church,  and  had  not  once  looked  towards 
her — she  thought — oh  !  he  really  meant  it  then — meant  what  he 
had  said — meant  not  to  see  her  again  after  that  first  evening. 
The  thought  had  the  sting  of  death  in  it  for  her — anything, 
anything,  rather  than  such  an  estrangement.  There  could  be 
no  such  bitter  suffering  in  any  other  lot  of  sorrow.  Nearly  in- 
sane with  grief,  and  blind  with  tears,  and  fainting  with  weari- 
ness, she  tottered  on  through  the  forest-path.  Unwilling  to  go 
home  and  be  seen  and  inevitably  questioned  by  some  one,  and 
needing  some  secluded  spot  to  sit  down  and  rest  her  wearied 
frame,  «nd  weep  unnoticed,  Marian  stopped,  and  turned  to  l^ok 
drearily  and  sadly  around  her. 

She  had  reached  the  spot  where  the  little  by-path  led  to  the 
mossy  dell — a  fond  fascination  drew  her  down  that  path.  It 
would  be  some  comfort  to  sit  there  upon  the  mossy  rocks,  among 


416  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

the  sweet  violets,  under  the  dear  old  trees,  doubly  beloved  now 
as  the  confidants  of  their  love.  She  reached  the  spot,  stepped 
down  the  mossy  stairs,  and  seated  herself  at  the  foot, 

A  picture,  matchless  in  beauty  and  glory,  was  spread  out 
before  her — the  rolling  country,  green  with  the  brilliant  verdure 
of  June.  The  distant  bay,  clear  and  blue  as  molten  sapphire 
~-the  western  horizon,  with  the  sun  setting  behind  a  bank  of 
clouds,  like  a  range  of  golden  mountains,  whose  peaks  were  all 
ablaze  with  his  last  rays. 

But  Marian  saw  nothing  of  this — dropping  her  weary  head 
upon  her  hands,  she  gave  way  to  the  burden  of  grief  that  had 
been  bowing  her  down  all  this  time,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  tears 
and  sobs  that  shook  her  whole  frame.  She  wept  long  and 
heartily,  but  the  tears  did  not  seem  to  relieve  her  as  usual — they 
left  the  aching,  aching  sorrow  still  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THAT      NIGHT. 

"  now  goes  the  night  in  the  widow's  cot  ? 

Are  the  blinds  safe  closed  ?    Does  the  hearth  ihine  tslear  f 
Are  they  jesting  together,  while  site,  forgot, 
Links  every  thought  with  a  falling  tear." 

MEANWHILE,  Edith  sat  by  her  cottage  window,  musing  and 
ga/ing  out  upon  the  rolling,  open  country,  the  calm  bay,  and 
the  range  of  golden  cloud  mountains,  whose  peaks  were  all  ablaze 
with  the  setting  sun.  Old  Jenny  came  in  with  an  armful  of  light 
•wood,  to  kindle  the  fire. 

"I  tell  yer  all  what!"  she  said,  dropping  her  load  upon  the 
hearth,  and  taking  breath,  "Sam's  gwine  to  be  let  loose  to- 
night, 'deed  he !  Sich  anudder  cloud  arisin' !  Lord !  I  pity  de 


THAT      XIGHT.  417 

crafts  as  'ill  be  out  on  de  water  dis  night — 'deed  me !  Miss 
Edif !  is  yer  a  lookin'  at  dat  der  arisin'  off  in  de  Wes'  ?" 

"  Yes — but  I  don't  think  we  shall  have  a  storm  for  two  o~ 
three  hours  yet;  but,  Jenny,  it  is  nearly  time  for  Miss  Marian's 
return.  I  want  you  to  get  a  nice  tea  for  her;  make  some  of 
those  light  biscuits  that  she  likes — the  girl  has  eaten  nothing 
lately." 

"  Berry  well.  I  dunno  as  she'll  th^nk  me,  dough,  for  break- 
ing de  Sabberdy  on  her  'count,  nudder,  'deed  me !" 

"Miriam,  why  are  you  moping  so  ?  Poor  child!  it  is  lone- 
some for  you  these  Sundays  at  home,  without  playmates,  or 
books-,  or  anything  to  help  the  time  on  pleasantly,"  said  Edith, 
to  the  little  girl,  who  stood  gazing  sadly  from  the  window. 

"  It  is  not  that,  mother.  Marian  walked  to  church  to-day, 
and — I  am  looking  at  that  cloud." 

"  True,  child,  it  does  rise  very  fast.  I  wish  she  were  safe 
home." 

Old  Jenny  had  hung  the  kettle  over  the  blazing  fire,  and  laid 
the  spider  and  spider-lid  up  against  the  front  to  get  heated, 
and  she  now  stood  at  the  table  with  her  hands  wrist-deep  in 
the  dough,  and  while  she  kneaded  and  worked  up  and  twisted 
off  and  formed  the  mass  into  biscuits,  and  while  Edith  sat  and 
mused,  and  Miriam  stood  and  gazed  from  the  window,  the 
cloud  arose  higher  and  blacker  and  overspread  the  whole  sky. 

"  Miss  Mirie,  honey,  jest  you  light  me  a  candle,  will  yer  ? 
it's  a  gittin'  mos'  as  dark  as  midnight,"  said  Jenny,  looking 
around  from  her  work. 

Miriam  went  and  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  then  began 
to  set  the  table,  while  her  mother  closed  the  blinds,  and  old 
Jenny  put  the  biscuits  in  the  spider. 

"Oh,  where  can  she  be?  Oh,  I  wish  she  would  come,"  said 
Miriam. 

"  She  will  be  here  very  soon,  now,  my  dear.  Church  has 
been  out  at  least  three  hours,  and  though  the  distance  is  long, 
Marian  is  a  rapid  walker." 

"Then  don't  close  the  front  shutter,  mother — let  her  see  the 
light  as  she  comes  across  the  fields." 


418  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

And  the  little  girl  went  and  opened  the  blind. 

But  just  then  an  awful  peal  of  thunder  broke,  rolling,  crash- 
ing, and  vibrating  through  the  sky,  accompanied  by  a  flash  of 
blinding  lightning,  and  followed  by  a  deluge  of  rain.  With  a 
suppressed  scream  Miriam  started  from  the  window,  old  Jenny 
sprang  away  from  the  fire-place,  and  Edith  rose  to  her  feet  with 
clasped  hands.  For  a  moment  the  three  stood  gazing  in  silence 
at  each  other. 

Then  came  another  blinding  glare  of  lightning,  another  deaf- 
ening crash  of  thunder,  and  then  Miriam  sprang  to  the  door  to 
open  it. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  child  ?  Has  the  storm  put  you  out 
of  your  wits  ?"  asked  Edith,  starting  to  her  side  and  catching 
her  arm. 

"  Oh  !  I  must — I  must  go  see  where  Marian  is,  I  can't — / 
can't  stay  here  while  she  is  out,"  cried  the  child. 

Another  blaze  of  lightning — another  peal  of  thunder,  and 
Edith  shuddering,  locked  the  door  and  withdrew  the  key,  doubt- 
ing her  moral  power  to  keep  the  half-delirious  child  from  flying 
out  in  search  of  her  friend. 

"Oh,  you've  locked  her  out  in  the  storm !"  cried  Miriam, 
wringing  her  hands. 

"  No,  dear.  I  have  no  idea  that  Marian  is  out  in  the  storm 
now.  Heaven  forbid.  Seeing  the  cloud  arising,  she  probably 
went  home  with  Miss  Thornton  to  spend  the  night.  She — " 

A  glare  of  light  as  if  all  the  heavens  had  suddenly  burst 
into  flame,  accompanied  by  an  explosion,  whose  tremendous 
shock  seemed  to  shake  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth,  and 
followed  by  a  fall  of  water  as  if  the  fountains  of  the  great 
deep  had  been  broken  up,  and  the  windows  of  heaven  opened 
for  another  flood ! 

Edith  sank  down  upon  a  low  chair  and  drew  Miriam  close  to 
her  bosom.  Jenny  was  crouched  upon  a  stool  iu  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  muttering  her  prayers. 

"  Mother,  oh,  mother,  are  you  sure  she  is  safe  ?"  whis- 
pered Miriam,  upon  her  mother's  bosom. 


THAT      SIGHT.  419 

"  Yes,  sure,  my  dear — she  would  else  have  been  here  long  ago." 

The  thunder  still  rolled — the  lightning  still  glared — the  raiu 
still  poured  through  many  hours. 

At  last,  towards  midnight,  the  storm  began  to  abate,  and  the 
frightened  inmates  of  the  cottage  ventured  to  look  up  and  speak 
to  each  other. 

"  Jes'  tell  you  what — heap  o'  dammidge  done  dis  er'  night, 
Miss  Edif.  Well !  thank  Marster." 

Miriam  raised  her  head  from  her  mother's  breast,  and  looked 
at  Jenny  in  so  much  astonishment,  that  the  old  woman  hastened 
to  say, 

"  Xot  as  der  wer  so  much  dammidye  done,  honey,  but  a-caze 
we-dem's  safe.  Now,  den,  as  it's  done  lightenin'  I'll  jes'  go  an' 
see  inter  de  state  o'  dese  biscuits,"  and  she  went  to  the  fire- 
place, took  up  the  tongs  and  lifted  the  lid  off  the  spider,  but 
immediately  dropped  it  with  an  ejaculation  of  terror  as  another 
flash  of  lightning  blazed  into  the  room,  and  another  peal  of 
thunder  rolled  over  the  roof. 

"  Dar  !  Lord  a  massy  upon  me,  what  anybody  t'ink  o'  dat  ? 
Sam  trought  he  done  hab  dis  chile  dat  time,  ' 'deed  he!  Sam 
done  made  me  go  up  to  dat  ar  chirnly  and  take  holten  dem  yer 
iron  'cerns,  to  fetch  de  lightenin',  deed  he!  Ah  !  nobody  knows 
de  'ceivin  art  o'  he;  but  bress  patience,  I  done  'scape  him  dis 
time — thank  Marster!"  said  Jenny,  as  she  took  a  seat  at  a  safe 
distance  from  the  fire-place. 

The  storm  continued  to  subside.  Muttering  in  low  thunder, 
and  glaring  in  distant  lightning,  the  "  prince  of  the  powers  of 
air"  drew  off  his  hosts.  And  the  moon,  like  a  goddess  of  peace, 
emerged  from  the  clouds,  and  all  was  calm. 

"  Now,  I  think  you  may  go  to  the  fire-place  without  danger, 
Jenny,"  said  her  mistress. 

And  the  old  woman  again  approached  the  hearth  to  inves- 
tigate the  condition  of  their  supper.  The  biscuits  were  baked 
hard,  and  had  grown  nearly  cold,  as  had  also  the  water  in  the 
tea-kettle,  for  the  fire  was  almost  out.  However,  Jenny  raked 
the  brands  together,  and  soon  kindled  a  bright  blaze,  and  soon 
after  had  the  tea  smoking  on  the  teble. 


420  THE      HISSING      BRIDE. 

But  the  little  family  had  been  too  much  disturbed  and  fa 
tigued  to  eat ;  the  supper  was  little  better  than  a  mere  form, 
and  it  was  soon  dispatched,  and  the  service  cleared  away. 

They  fastened  the  doors  and  windows,  and  went  up  stairs 
tc  bed.  But  long  after  Edith  was  asleep,  little  Miriam  lay 
a \\ake  watching  and  listening.  The  full  moon  shone  brightly 
into  the  chamber. 

The  head  of  Miriam's  bed  was  against  the  wall,  one  side  of 
Ihe  window  looking  out  upon  the  bay  ;  but  the  foot  was  towards 
the  opposite  window  that  looked  landward,  and  commanded  the 
old  fields  and  the  belt  of  forest  and  the  cross  roads.  And  the 
child,  as  she  lay,  kept  her  eyes  open  and  strained  through  that 
window,  as  though  it  were  possible  to  discern  a  figure  approach- 
ing from  that  distance,  or  as  though  it  were  likely  that  Marian 
would  come  home  at  that  late  hour.  Miriam  did  not  certainly 
think  she  would,  though,  with  strange  inconsistency,  she  watched 
jind  listened  for  her  coming,  and  could  not  close  her  eyes  in 
sleep. 

At  last  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  light  step,  near  the 
front  door,  and  then  she  heard  a  gentle  rap,  and  a  soft  voice, 
saying, 

"It  is  I,  Jenny." 

"  Miss  Marian  !  Marster  !"  said  Jenny,  getting  up  from  her 
pallet  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  fumbling  at  the  door-lock  until 
she  had  it  open,  and  admitted  Marian. 

"Marster's  dear  sake,  chile!  who  come  home  wid  yer  ? 
Where  is  yer  been  ?  Is  yer  wet  ?  Did  yer  get  ketched  in  de 
storm  ?  Marster  'Deemer  !  how  pale  yer  does  look,  chile  !  Come, 
sit  down  to  de  fire,  while  I  rakes  up  de  chunks,  an'  makes  you 
summat  hot." 

"  Hush — no,  I'm  not  chilled,  and  don't  wish  anything,  thank 
jou,"  said  Marian,  passing  through  the  room,  where  she  left 
Jenny  standing  in  her  amazement,  and  going  quietly  up  stairs. 

There  she  found  Miriam  awake  and  waiting  for  her.  The 
child  had  raised  up  on  her  elbow,  and  her  large,  dark,  melan- 
choly eyes  were  fixed  in  surprise,  grief,  and  anxiety  upon  her 
friend 


THAT      NIGHT.  421 

"  Marian,  were  you  out  in  the  storm  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,  love,  I  was  under  shelter,  and  now  I  am  safe  at  homet 
but  it  is  too  late  for  your  sweet  eyes  to  be  open.  Go  to  sleep, 
love,"  said  Marian,  approaching  the  bed  and  kissing  the  little 
girl,  and  laying  her  down  upon  the  pillow.  Then  she  quickly 
prepared  herself  and  lay  down  beside  her;  but  the  child,  who 
had  kept  her  eyes  upon  her  all  the  while,  said  now,  in  a  voice 
of  surprise, 

"  Marian,  you  forgot  to  say  your  prayers!" 

With  something  like  a  shiver,  Marian  arose  and  knelt  down. 

So  long  she  remained  upon  her  knees  that  the  watchful  child 
at  last  began  to  suspect,  that,  overcome  with  weariness,  she  had 
fallen  asleep. 

She  crept  closer  to  her  and  put  out  her  hand,  and  then  she 
found  Marian's  face  and  hands  wet  with  tears.  She  wiped  and 
kissed  away  those  tears,  and  whispered  softly  the  best  words  of 
comfort  she  could  think  of: — 

"  I  love  you,  Marian.     I  love  you  so  much." 

And  Marian,  shocked  and  repentant  that  her  grief  should  so 
overshadow  this  child's  young  life,  made  a  desperate  effort  to 
conquer  the  weakness,  dashed  away  her  tears,  and  smiling  said, 

"  Never  mind  me,  love.  I  have  been  low  spirited — and  tired 
out — all  persons  are  at  times — but  it  will  wear  off — it  shall — it 
must,"  she  added,  mentally,  as  once  more  she  lay  down  and  drew 
the  child's  head  upon  her  bosom. 

But  Marian  found  it  a  severe  struggle.  Many  nights  suc- 
ceeding this,  little  Miriam,  lying  asvake,  would  put  up  her  hand 
to  feel  if  Marian's  eyes  were  sleeping  or  weeping,  and,  finding 
them  wet  with  tears,  would  kiss  those  tears  away.  And  ninny 
days  Edith's  anxious  glance  would  follow  Marian  through  the 
house,  and  her  earnest  questioning  harrass  and  embarrass  her 
not  a  little.  But  Marian  had  been  too  long  the  ruling  spirit  of 
that  house,  not  to  command  respect  and  observance  when  s!io 
wished  it.  And  Edith  hud  too  long  been  accustomed  to  look 
up  to  the  young  girl,  to  depend  upon  her,  to  be  guided  by  her, 
to  nw  intrude  upon  her  confidence  when  she  had  once  said 


422  THE      MISSING       BRIDE. 

"  No."  And  so,  after  Marian  had  answered  her  anxious  in- 
quiries with  "  You  cannot  understand  nor  help  me,  dear  Edith. 
You  must  perforce  leave  me  to  myself,"  Edith  desisted  forever 

But  Miriam,  with  the  instinct  of  devoted  love,  watched  over 
her  friend.  Have  you  ever  had  occasion  to  notice  the  helpless 
piteous  dismay  with  which  children  look  upon  the  grief  of  grown 
people,  whom  they  vainly  try  to  comfort,  yet  despair  of  comfort- 
ing ?  Such  was  Miriam's  sympathy  for  her  young  nurse,  as 
she  watched  her  paling  cheeks  and  fading  eyes,  and  failing  step, 
and  could  find  no  other  way  of  consoling  than  by  caressing 
and  assuring  her. 

"  I  love  you,  Marian,  I  love  you  dearly  !" 

From  that  miserable  night,  Marian  saw  no  more  of  Thurston, 
except  occasionally  at  church,  when  he  came  at  irregular  inter- 
vals, and  maintained  the  same  coolness  and  distance  of  manner 
towards  her,  and  with  matchless  self-command,  too,  since  often 
his  heart  yearned  towards  her  with  almost  irresistible  force. 

Cold  and  calm  as  was  his  exterior,  he  was  suffering  not  less 
than  Marian ;  self-tossed  with  passion,  the  strong  currents  and 
counter-currents  of  his  sonl  whirled  as  a  moral  maelstrom,  in 
which  both  reason  and  conscience  threatened  to  be  engulfed. 

And  in  these  mental  conflicts  judgment  and  understanding 
were  often  obscured  and  bewildered,  and  the  very  boundaries 
of  right  and  wrong  lost. 

His  appreciation  of  Marian  wavered  with  his  moods. 

When  very  angry  he  would  mentally  denounce  her  as  a  cold, 
prudent,  calculating  woman,  who  had  entrapped  him  into  a 
secret  marriage,  and  having  secured  his  hand,  would  now  risk 
nothing  for  his  love,  and  himself  as  a  weak,  fond  fool,  the  tool 
of  the  beautiful,  proud  diplomate,  whom  it  would  be  justiliable 
to  circumvent,  to  defeat,  and  to  humble  in  some  way. 

At  such  times  he  felt  a  desire,  amounting  to  a  strong  temp- 
tation, to  abduct  her — to  get  her  into  his  power,  and  make  her 
lecl  that  power.  No  law  could  protect  her  or  punish  him — for 
they  were  married. 

But  here  was  the  extreme  point  at  which  reaction  generally 


THAT      NIGHT.  423 

commenced,  for  Thurston  could  not  contemplate  himself  in  that 
rUaracter — playing  such  a  part,  for  an  instant. 

A  nd  then  when  a  furtive  glance  would  show  him  Marian's 
angel  face,  fairer  and  paler  and  more  pensive  than  ever  before 
— a  strong  counter-current  of  love  and  admiration  approaching 
to  worship,  would  set  in,  and  he  would  look  upon  her  as  a  fair 
saint  worthy  of  translation  to  Heaven,  and  upon  himself  as  a 
designing  but  foiled  conspirator,  scarcely  one  degree  above  the 
most  atrocious  villain.  "Currents  and  counter-currents"  of 
stormy  passion,  where  is  the  pilot  that  shall  guide  the  under- 
standing safely  through  them  ?  It  is  no  wonder,  that  once  in  a 
while,  a  mind  is  wrecked. 

Marian,  sitting  in  her,  pew  saw  nothing  in  his  face  or  manner 
to  indicate  that  inward  storm.  She  only  saw  the  sullen,  freez- 
ing exterior.  Even  in  his  softened  moods  of  penitence,  Thurs- 
ton dared  not  seek  her  society. 

For  Marian  had  begun  to  recover  from  the  first  abject  pros- 
tration of  her  sorrow,  and  her  fair  resolute  brow  and  sad  firm 
lips  mutely  assured  him,  that  she  never  would  consent  to  be  his 
own,  until  their  marriage  could  be  proclaimed. 

And  he  durst  not  trust  himself  in  her  tempting  presence, 
lest  there  should  be  a  renewal  of  those  humiliating  scenes  he 
had  endured. 

Thus  passing  a  greater  portion  of  the  summer  ;  during  whioh 
Thurston  gradually  dropped  off  from  the  church,  and  from  all 
other  haunts  where  he  was  likely  to  encounter  Marian,  and  as 
gradually  began  to  frequent  the  Catholic  chapel,  and  to  visit 
Luckenough,  and  to  throw  himself  as  much  as  possible  into  the 
distracting  company  of  the  pretty  elf  Jacquelina.  But  this — 
while  it  threw  Doctor  Grimshaw  almost  into  frenzy,  did  not 
help  Thurston  to  forget  the  good  and  beautiful  Marian.  Indeed 
by  contrast  it  seemed  to  make  her  more  excellent  and  lovely. 

And  thus,  while  Jacquelina  fancied  she  had  a  new  admirer, 
Dr.  Grimshaw  feared  that  he  had  a  new  rival,  and  the  holy 
fathers  hoped  they  had  a  new  convert — Thurstou  laughed  at 
the  vanity  of  the  elf,  the  jealousy  of  the  Ogre,  and  the  gulli- 


424  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

bility  of  the  priests — and  sought  only  escape  from  the  haunting 
memory  of  Marian,  and  found  it  not.  And  finally,  bored  and 
ennuied  beyond  endurance,  he  cast  about  for  a  plan  by  which% 
to  hasten  his  union  with  Marian.  Perhaps  it  was  only  that 
neighborhood  she  was  afraid  of,  he  thought — perhaps  in  some 
other  place  she  would  be  less  scrupulous.  Satan  had  no  sooner 
whispered  this  thought  to  Thurston's  ear,  than  he  conceived 
the  design  of  spending  the  ensuing  autumn  in  Paris — and  of 
making  Marian  his  companion  while  there.  Fired  with  this 
new  idea  and  this  new  hope,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  her  a  few 
lines — without  address  or  signature — as  follows  : 

"  Dearest,  forgive  all  the  past.  I  was  mad  and  blind.  I  have 
a  plan  to  secure  at  once  our  happpiness.  Meet  me  in  the 
Mossy  dell,  this  evening,  and  let  me  explain  it  at  your  feet." 

Having  written  this  note,  Thurston  scarcely  knew  how  to 
get  it,  at  once,  into  Marian's  hands.  To  put  it  into  the  village 
post-office  was  to  expose  it  to  the  prying  eyes  of  Miss  Xancy 
Skamp.  To  send  it  to  Old  Field?,  by  a  messenger,  was  still 
more  hazardous.  To  slip  it  into  Marian's  own  hand,  he  would 
have  to  wait  the  whole  week  until  Sunday — and  then  might 
not  be  able  to  do  so  unobserved. 

Finally,  after  much  thought,  he  determined,  without  admit- 
ting the  elf  into  his  full  confidence,  to  entrust  the  delivery  of 
the  note  to  Jacquelina. 

He  therefore  copied  it  into  the  smallest  space,  rolled  it  up 
tightly,  and  took  it  with  him  when  he  went  to  Luckenough. 

He  spent  the  whole  afternoon  at  the  mansion  house,  without 
having  an  opportunity  to  slip  it  into  the  hands  of  Jacquelina. 

It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Waugh  was  not  present,  that  good 
woman  being  in  the  back  parlor,  sitting  at  one  end  of  the  sofa 
and  making  a  pillow  of  her  lap  for  the  Commodore's  head, 
which  she  combed  soporifically,  while,  stretched  at  full  length, 
he  took  his  afternoon  nap.  But  Mary  L'Oiseau  was  there, 
quietly  knotting  a  toilet  cover,  and  Professor  Grimshaw  was 
there,  scowling  behind  a  book  that  he  was  pretending  to  read, 
and  losing  no  word  or  look  or  tone  or  gesture  of  Thurston  or 


THAT      NIGHT.  425 

lacquclina,  who  talked  and  laughed  and  flirted  and  jested,  as 
if  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  themselves. 

At  last  a  little  negro  appeared  at  the  door,  to  summon  Mrs. 
L'Oiseau  to  give  out  supper,  and  Mary  arose  and  left  the 
room. 

The  Professor  scowled  at  Jacquelina  from  over  the  top  of  his 
book  for  a  little  while,  and  then,  muttering  an  excuse,  got  up 
and  went  out,  and  left  them  alone  together. 

That  was  a  very  common  trick  of  the  doctor's  lately,  and  no 
one  could  imagine  why  he  did  it. 

"  It  is  a  ruse,  a  trap,  the  grim  idiot !  to  see  what  we  will  say 
to  each  other  behind  his  back.  Oh,  Pd  dose  him !  I  just 
wish  Thurston  would  kiss  me  1  I  do  so  !"  thought  Jacquelina. 
"  Thurston,"  and  the  elf  leaned  towards  her  companion,  and 
began  to  be  as  bewitching  as  she  knew  how. 

But  Thurston  was  not  thinking  of  Jacquelina's  mischief, 
though  without  intending  it  he  played  directly  into  her  hands. 

Rising,  be  took  his  hat,  and  saying  that  his  witching  little 
cousin  had  beguiled  him  into  breaking  one  engagement  already, 
advanced  to  take  leave  of  her. 

"  Jacquelina,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice,  and  slipping  the 
note  for  Marian  into  her  hand,  "  may  I  ask  you  to  deliver  this 
to  Miss  Mayfield,  when  no  one  is  by  ?" 

A  look  of  surprise  and  perplexity,  followed  by  a  nod  of  in- 
telligence was  her  answer. 

And  Thurston,  with  a  grateful  smile,  raised  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  took  leave  and  departed. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is  all  about  ?  I  could  easily  untwist  and 
read  it,  but  I  would  not  do  so  for  a  kingdom  !"  said  Jacko  to 
herself  as  she  turned  the  tiny  note  about  in  her  fingers. 

"  Hand  me  that  note,  madam  !"  said  Doctor  Grimshaw,  in 
curt  and  husky  tones,  as,  with  a  stern  brow,  he  stood  before  her. 

"  No,  sir  1  it  was  not  intended  for  you,"  she  said,  mockingly, 

"  By  the  demons,  I  know  that!     Hand  it  here  !" 

"  Don't  swear  nor  get  angry  !     Both  are  unbecoming  a  Pro- 
fessor 1"  said  the  elf,  with  mocking  gravity. 
35* 


426  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"Perdition!  will  you  give  it  up?"  stamped  the  doctor, 
in  a  fury. 

"  'Perdition,'  no;"  mocked  the  fairy. 

"  Hand  it  here,  I  command  you,  madam  !"  cried  the  Pro- 
fessor, trying  to  compose  himself  and  recover  his  dignity. 

"  Command  away — I  like  to  hear  you.  Command  a  regiment 
if  you  like!"  said  the  elf. 

"  Give  it  up  !"  thundered  the  Professor,  losing  his  slight  hold 
upon  self-control. 

"  Couldn't  do  it,  sir,"  said  Jacko,  gravely. 

"  It  is  an  appointment,  you  impudent !    Hand  it  here." 

"  Not  as  you  know  of!"  laughed  Jacko,  tauntingly  shaking  it 
over  her  head. 

He  made  a  rush  to  catch  it. 

She  sprang  nimbly  away,  and  clapped  the  paper  into  her 
mouth. 

He  overtook  and  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  shaking  her 
roughly,  exclaimed,  under  his  breath, 

"Where  is  it?  What  have  you  done  with  it?  You  exas- 
perating, unprincipled  little  wretch,  where  is  it  ?" 

"'Echo  anfers  fere  ?' "  mumbled  the  imp,  chewing  up  the 
paper,  and  keeping  her  lips  tight. 

"  Give  it  me !  give  it  me !  or  I'll  be  the  death  of  you,  you 

diabolical  little !"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely,  shaking  her  as 

if  he  would  have  shaken  her  breath  out. 

But  Jacko  had  finished  chewing  up  the  paper,  and  she  swal- 
lowed the  pulp  with  an  effort  that  nearly  choked  her,  and  then 
opening  her  mouth,  and  inflating  her  chest,  gave  voice  in  a 
succession  of  piercing  shrieks,  that  brought  the  whole  family 
rushing  into  the  room,  and  obliged  the  Professor  to  relax  his 
hold,  and  stand  like  a  detected  culprit. 

For  there  was  the  Commodore  roused  up  from  his  sleep,  with 
his  gray  hair  and  beard  standing  out  all  ways,  like  the  picture 
of  the  sun  in  an  almanac.  And  there  was  Mrs.  Waugh,  with 
the  great  tooth  comb  in  her  hand.  And  Mary  L'Oiseau,  with 
the  pantry  keys.  And  the  maid,  Maria,  with  the  wooden  tray 


THAT      NIGHT.  427 

of  flour  on  her  head.  And  Festus,  with  a  bag  of  meal  in  his 
nauds.  And  all  with  their  eyes  and  ears  and  mouths  agape  with 
amazement  arid  inquiry. 

"  In  the  fiend's  name,  what's  the  matter?  "What  the  d—  1's 
broke  loose  ?  Is  the  house  on  fire  again  ?"  vociferated  the 
Commodore,  seeing  that  no  one  else  spoke ;  "  what's  all  this 
about,  Xace  Grimshaw  ?" 

"Ask  your  pretty  niece,  sir!"  said  the  Professor,  sternly, 
turning  away. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  you  little  termagant  you  ?  Oh,  you're  a 
honey-cooler.  What  have  you  been  doing  now,  Imp  ?"  cried 
the  old  man,  turning  fiercely  to  Jacquelina.  "  Answer  me,  you 
little  vixen  ! — what  does  all  this  mean  ?" 

"Better  ask  'the  gentlemanly  Professor'  why  he  seized  and 
nearly  shook  the  head  off  my  shoulders  and  the  breath  out  of 
my  bosom!"  said  Jacquelina,  half-crying,  half-laughing. 

The  Commodore  turned  furiously  towards  Grim'.  Shaking 
a  woman's  head  off  her  shoulders,  and  breath  out  of  her  body, 
in  his  house,  did  not  suit  his  ideas  of  gallantry  at  all,  rough  as 
he  was. 

"  By  heaven  !  are  you  mad,  sir  ?  What  have  you  been  doing  ? 
I  never  laid  the  weight  of  my  hand  on  Jacquelina  in  all  my  life, 
wild  as  she  has  driven  me  at  times.  Explain  your  bru- 
tality, sir." 

"  It  was  to  force  from  her  hand  a  paper  which  she  has  swal- 
lowed," said  Doctor  Grimshaw,  with  stern  coldness  regarding 
the  group. 

"Swallowed!  swallowed!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Waugh,  rushing 
towards  Jacquelina,  and  seizing  one  of  her  arms,  and 
gazing  in  her  face,  thinking  omy  of  poisons,  and  of  Jacko's 
frequent  threats  of  suicide.  "  Swallowed  !  swallowed  !  Where 
did  sne  get  it  ?  Who  procured  it  for  her  ?  What  was  it  ? 
Oh  run  for  the  doctor,  somebody.  What  are  you  all  standing 
like  you  were  thunderstruck  for  ?  Doctor  Grimshaw,  start  a 
boy  on  horseback  immediately  for  a  physician.  Tell  him  to 
tell  the  doctor  to  bring  a  stomach  pump  with  him.  You  nad 


428  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

better  go  yourself.  Oh,  hasten  !  not  a  single  moment  is  tc  be 
lost.  Jacquelina,  my  dear,  do  you  begin  to  feel  sick  ?  Do  you 
feel  a  burning  in  your  throat  and  stomach  ?  Oh,  my  dear 
child  !  how  came  you  to  do  such  a  rash  act  ?" 

Jacko  broke  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"  Oh  !  crazy  !  crazy  !  it  is  something  that  affects  her  brain 
she  has  taken.  Oh !  Dr.  Grimshaw,  how  can  you  have  the 
heart  to  stand  there  and  not  go  ?  probably  opium." 

Jacko  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks — never, 
since  her  marriage,  had  Jacko  laughed  so  much. 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Grimshaw  !  Don't  you  see  she  is  getting  worse 
and  worse.  How  can  you  have  the  heart  to  stand  there  and 
uot  go  for  a  physician  ?"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  while  Mary 
L'Oiseau  looked  on  mute  with  terror,  and  the  Commodore  stood 
with  his  fat  eyes  protruded  nearly  to  bursting. 

"Go,  oh,  go,  Dr.  Grimshaw!"  insisted  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  not  necessary,  madam,"  said  the  Professor, 
with  stern  scorn. 

"  There  is  no  danger,  aunty.  I  haven't  taken  any  poison 
since  I  took  a  dose  of  Grim'  before  the  altar  !"  said  Jacko 
through  her  tears  and  laughter. 

"  What  have  you  taken  then,  unfortunate  child  ?" 

"  I  have  swallowed  an  assignation,"  said  the  elf,  as  grave  as 
a  judge. 

"A  WHAT  !"  exclaimed  all,  in  a  breath. 

"  An  assignation,"  repeated  Jacko,  with  owl-like  calmness 
and  solemnity. 

"What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  do  you  mean,  my 
dear?"  inquired  Mrs.  Waugh,  while  the  Commodore  and  Mary 
L'Oiseau  looked  the  astonishment  they  did  not  speak.  "  Pray, 
explain  yourself,  my  love." 

"  He — says — I — swallowed — an — assignation — whole  /"  re- 
peated Jacquelina,  with  distinct  emphasis.  Her  auditors  looked 
from  one  to  another  in  perplexity. 

"  I  see  that  I  shall  have  to  explain  the  disagreeable  affair.7' 
Baid  the  Professor,  coming  forward,  and  addressing  himself  to 


THAT      NIGHT.  429 

the  Commodore.  "  Mr.  Thurston  Willcoxen  was  here  this 
afternoon  on  a  visit  to  your  niece,  sir.  In  taking  leave  he 
slipped  into  her  hand  a  small  note,  which,  when  I  demanded, 
Bhe  refused  to  let  me  see." 

"  And  very  properly,  too.  "What  right  had  you  to  make 
such  a  'demand?'"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  indignantly. 

"  I  was  not  addressing  my  remarks  to  you,  madam,"  retorted 
the  Professor. 

"  That  will  not  keep  me  from  making  a  running  commentary 
upon  them,  however,"  responded  the  lady. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Henrietta.  Go  on,  Nace.  I  swear  yo* 
are  enough  to  drive  a  peaceable  man  mad  between  you,"  said 
the  Commodore,  bringing  his  stick  down  emphatically.  "  Well, 
what  next  ?" 

"  On  my  attempting  to  take  it  from  her  she  put  it  in  ner 
mouth  and  swallowed  it." 

"  Yes  !  and  then  he  seized  me  and  shook  me,  as  if  I  had  been 
a  fine  bearing  little  plum  tree  in  harvest  time." 

"  And  served  you  right,  I  begin  to  think,  you  little  limb  you. 
What  was  it  you  had,  you  little  hussy  ?" 

"  An  assignation  he  says,  and  he  ought  to  know — being  a 
Professor." 

"  Don't  mock  us,  Minx  !  tell  us  instantly  what  were  the  con- 
tents of  that  note  ?" 

"  As  if  I  would  tell  you  even  if  I  could.  But  I  covldvft  tell 
you  even  if  I  would.  Haven't  the  least  idea  what  sort  of  a  note 
it  was,  from  a  note  of  music  to  a  '  note  of  hand,'  because  I  had 
to  swallow  it  as  I  swallowed  the  Ogre  at  the  church — without 
looking  at  it.  And  it  is  just  as  indigestible!  I  feel  it  like  a 
bullet  in  my  throat  yet !"  And  that  was  all  the  satisfaction 
they  could  get  out  of  Jacko. 

"  I  should  not  wonder  if  you  had  been  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self, Nace,"  said  the  Commodore,  who  seemed  inclined  to  blow 
up  both  parties. 

"I  hope,  sir,"  said  the  Professor,  with  great  assumption  of 
dignity,  "that  you  now  see  the  necessity  of  forbidding  that  im- 
pertinent young  coxcomb  the  house." 


430  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  Grim'.  Thurston  has  no 
more  idea  of  falling  in  love  with  little  Jacko  than  he  has  with 
her  mother  or  Henrietta,  not  a  bit  more."  And  then  the  Com- 
modore happening  to  turn  his  attention  to  the  two  gaping  ne- 
groes, with  a  flourish  of  his  stick  sent  them  about  their  business, 
and  left  the  room. 

The  next  evening  Thurston  repaired  to  the  mossy  dell  in  the 
expectation  of  seeing  Marian,  who  of  course  did  not  make  her 
appearance. 

The  morning  after,  filled  with  disappointment  and  mortifying 
conjecture  as  to  the  cause  of  her  non-appearance,  Thurston 
presented  himself  before  Jacquelina  at  Luckenough.  He  hap- 
pened to  find  her  alone.  With  all  her  playfulness  of  character, 
the  poor  fairy  had  too  much  self-respect  to  relate  the  scene  to 
which  she  had  been  exposed  the  day  before.  So  she  contented 
herself  with  saying, 

"  I  found  no  opportunity  of  delivering  your  note,  Thurston, 
and  so  I  thought  it  best  to  destroy  it." 

"  I  thank  you.  Under  the  circumstances  that  was  best,"  re- 
plied the  young  man,  much  relieved.  He  then  aro?e,  bade  her 
good-day,  and  departed  with  the  resolution  of  writing  to  Marian, 
and  placing  the  letter  in  her  own  hands  at  church.  He  reached 
home,  set  down  and  wrote  a  long  and  eloquent  epistle,  implor- 
ing her  forgiveness  for  his  rashness  and  folly,  assuring  her  of 
his  continued  love  and  admiration  ;  speaking  of  the  impossibility 
of  living  longer  without  her  society — informing  her  of  his  in- 
tention to  go  to  Paris,  and  proposing  that  she  should  either 
precede  or  follow  him  thither,  and  join  him  in  that  city.  It 
was  her  duty,  he  urged,  to  follow  her  husband.  This  was  the 
main  point  of  his  argument,  and  he  did  not  fail  to  enforce  it 
with  all  the  plausibility  and  power  and  eloquence  that  love  and 
logic  could  inspire  and  teach,  nor  fail  to  wrest  many  texts  of 
Scripture  from  their  spiritual  truth,  and  lug  them  in  to  support 
nis  cause.  When  Thurston  had  finished  and  read  over  his  let- 
ter, he  was  marvelously  well  pleased  with  his  work. 

"She  cannot  resist  this  appeal!     No,  she  cannot  do  it  I     If 


THAT      NIGHT.  431 

she  is  the  Christian  woman  she  professes  to  be,  she  cannot  re- 
fnse  to  go  with  me,"  he  said  triumphantly,  as  he  folded  and 
Bealed  the  letter,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  to  take  with  him  to 
church.  He  felt  perfectly  confident  of  its  success,  as  he  con- 
trived to  approach  Marian  in  the  crowd  and  slip  it  unobserved 
in  her  hand.  Marian's  mind  had  recovered  its  wonted  tone  of 
strength  and  calmness,  yet  this  letter  shook  all  her  nature  again, 
and  for  a  time  nearly  threw  into  chaos  her  notions  of  right  and 
wrong  upon  this  subject.  It  was  several  days  before  she  felt 
sufficiently  calm  and  collected  to  trust  herself  to  answer  it.  She 
saw  nothing  of  Thurston  during  the  week.  But  on  Sunday 
after  church  she  placed  her  answer  in  his  hands.  He  hurried 
to  the  inn  and  found  a  room  to  read  it.  He  broke  the  seal  and 
commenced.  The  letter  was  characteristic  of  Marian — clear, 
firm,  frank  and  truthful.  It  concluded  thus  : — 

"  I  will  not  speak  of  what  I  have  suffered,  dear  Thurston — 
you  must  have  seen  how  long — none  but  the  Searcher  of  hearts 
knew  how  deeply.  Enough  that  I  accepted  the  sorrow  in  all 
humility.  Enough  that  that  miserable  and  abject  weakness  has 
passed,  and  my  mind  has  recovered  its  tone.  I  feel  stronger, 
more  patient,  more  hopeful  and  more  trustful  for  you  and  my- 
self, and  for  our  future  lives.  You  say,  dear  Thurston — and 
you  quote  many  passages  of  Scripture  to  enforce  your  words — 
that  having  given  you  my  hand  in  marriage,  I  should  now  be 
willing  to  intrust  my  fate  in  your  hands,  and  yield  my  will  to 
yours  in  all  things.  Well — I  have  no  controversy  with  you 
npon  that  point.  All  my  affections  and  instincts,  as  well  as 
reason  and  religion,  teach  me  the  same  sweet  lesson — and  I  will 
do  so,  dearest  Thurston,  in  all  things  that  are — right.  But 
this  step  that  you  have  hastily  proposed  for  me  to  take,  would 
not  be  right,  as  a  little  reflection  will  convince  yourself.  Were 
I  to  do  as  you  desire  me — leave  home  clandestinely,  precede  or 
follow  you  to  Paris  and  join  you  there,  suspicion  and  calumny 
*rould  pursue  me — obloquy  would  rest  upon  my  memory.  All 
these  things  I  could  bear,  were  it  necessary  in  a  good  cause ; 
but  here  it  is  not  necessary,  and  would  be  wrong.  But  I  speak 


432  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

not  of  myself — I  ought  not  indeed,  to  do  so — nor  of  Edith, 
whose  head  would  be  bowed  in  humiliation  and  sorrow — nor  of 
little  Miriam,  whose  passionate  heart  would  be  half  broken  by 
such  a  desertion  But  I  speak  for  the  cause  of  morality  and 
religion  here  in  this  neighborhood,  where  we  find  ourselves 
placed  by  Heaven,  and  where  we  must  exercise  much  influence 
for  good  or  evil.  It  has  pleased  Heaven  to  make  me  instru- 
mental for  good  in  this  community.  Thurston,  I  trust  that  I 
am  an  humble  follower  of  the  'meek  and  lowly'  Nazarene,  and 
that  there  is  no  self-righteousness,  nor  spiritual  pride  in  wha\ 
I  have  just  said,  and  am  about  to  say — viz  :  that  should  '  Marian 
listen  to  the  pleadings  of  her  own  human  heart,  and  suffer  it  t« 
draw  her  into  any  act  of  weakness  or  folly — all  faith  in  good 
ness  and  righteousness  would  perish  out  of  many  youthful  hearts 
whom  she  has  taught  and  guided  from  infancy  up  to  young  girl- 
hood. Do  not  urge  me  to  the  commission  of  so  great  a  wrong. 
You  charge  me  with  great  pride  and  self-will.  In  the  long, 
happy  years  that  we  shall  yet  pass  together,  dear  Thurston,  you 
will  discover  how  little  of  pride  or  self-will  your  Marian  really 
has — how  much  she  has  been  actuated  by  conscientious  regard 
to  principle  and  duty.  Wait  patiently  for  those  happy  years, 
that  the  flying  days  are  speeding  on  towards  us — those  happy 
years,  when  you  shall  look  back  to  this  trying  time,  and  thank 
God  for  trials  and  temptations  passed  safely  through,  and  bless 
Him  that  no  slightest  shade  of  suspicion  was  ever  suffered  to 
fall  upon  your  Marian's  head,  or  weigh  upon  her  heart.  Wait 
for  those  happy  years,  dear  Thurston.  And  do  not  urge  me 
again  upon  this  subject.  Be  excellent,  Thurston — be  noble,  be 
god-like,  as  you  can  be,  if  you  will ;  it  is  in  you.  Be  true  to 
your  highest  ideal,  and  you  will  be  all  these.  Oh !  if  you  knew 
how  your  Marian's  heart  craves  to  bow  itself  before  true  god- 
like excellence!" 


The  letter  dropped  from  his  hand. 

Oh!  the  sudden  fall  from  hope — from  certainty!     Oh  I  the 
bitter,  bitter  disappointment  and  mortification!     He  had  been 


THAT       NIGHT.  433 

eo  sure  that  he  had  her  now.  That  letter  of  his  had  been  snch 
an  overwhelming  piece  of  eloquence  and  logic — he  had  been  so 
sure  of  its  conquering  her !  Had  he  not  attacked  her  principles 
with  her  own  weapons  ?  Had  he  not  "searched  the  Scriptures" 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  marshaled  more  texts  against 
her  than  ever  she  could  be  able  to  meet,  he  thought  ?  Had  he 
not  appealed  to  her  every  sense  of  love  and  duty  and  magna- 
nimity, with  unanswerable  logic  and  eloquence  ? 

And  now,  in  the  very  moment  of  confidently  expected  triumpn. 
to  have  his  letter  coolly,  and  gently,  and  firmly  set  aside,  and 
himself  bidden  to  stand  off  and  wait ! 

To  wait !  How  long  ?  Years  on  years,  perhaps,  while  she, 
the  cool,  collected,  passionless  girl !  would  pass  on  with  her  sweet 
smile  and  pure  eyes — mocking  and  maddening  him  with  her 
calm  beauty  !  Oh  !  the  strong  currents  and  counter-currents  of 
emotion  and  of  thought !  how  they  warred  upon  each  other — 
how  they  set  in,  and  dashed  and  roared  against  each  other, 
whelming  his  reason  in  a  whirlpool  of  passion!  Many  voices 
spoke,  but  their  tones  could  be  scarcely  heard  amid  the  chaos. 

"  Listen  to  her — she  is  wise  and  right.  This  beautiful  woman 
is  the  angel  of  yoTir  life !  She  came  to  draw  you  up  to  heights 
of  moral  glory  undreamed  of  by  you,"  whispered  the  pure  spirit 
of  true  love. 

"She  is  not!  She  is  selfish,  cold  and  calculating — without 
ardor,  without  enthusiasm,  without  abandon,  without  any 
womanly  quality,  except  the  beauty  that  has  driven  me  mad ! 
She  is  full  of  pride — all  sorts  of  pride — personal  pride,  social 
pride,  spiritual  pride!  And  by  my  tortures!  that  pride  should 
be  humbled  !  A  haughty,  self-righteous,  she-pharisee !"  growled 
the  demon  of  selfish  passion. 

And  Thurstori  started  up,  and  paced  the  room  with  rapid 
strides — and  then  finding  the  apartment  too  small  to  contain  the 
storm  of  passion  he  had  raised,  he  burst  out  of  the  room, 
mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  home  as  for  life.  Then  he  hurried 
to  his  own  chamber  and  seized  his  pen,  and  sat  down  and 
dashed  off  pnge  after  page  of  a  long,  interminable  letter  to 


434  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Marian.  And  then,  having  so  far  relieved  his  excitement,  ho 
sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  smiled  scornfully  at  himself  and  her — 
muttering — 

"  What  is  the  use  ?  This  will  not  alter  the  case  in  the  least 
Were  I  to  send  it,  she  would  reply  as  coolly  as  before — and 
still  pass  me  with  her  calm  lips  and  calm  eyes  as  unruffled  as 
ever.  I  am  a  fool !  A  duplicate  Doctor  Grimshaw !  Actions, 
not  words,  should  be  my  course !  Am  I  not  her  husband  ?  Have 
I  not  a  right  to  this  beautiful  rebel  ?  I  will  hesitate  no  longer ! 
I  will  carry  her  off!"  And  Thurston  tore  up  his  long  letter, 
and  sat  down,  with  his  elbows  on  his  writing-desk  and  his  fore- 
head in  his  hands,  to  organize  a  plan. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS THE      INTERCEPTED 

LETTER.  ^ 

"  Let  us  see — 

Leave  gentle  wax!  and  manners  blame  us  not, 
To  know  our  enemies'  minds  wo  rip  their  hearts; 
.  Their  paper  is  more  lawful." — Shakspeare. 

"  No !  The  mail  isn't  come  yet !  leastways  it  isn't  opened 
yet  1  Fan  that  fire,  you  little  black  imp,  you  1  and  make  that 
kittle  bile,  if  you  don't,  I  shall  never  git  this  wafer  soft !  and 
then  I'll  tarn  you  up,  and  give  you  sich  a  switching  as  ye  never 
had  in  your  born  days !  for  I  wont  be  trampled  on  by  you  any 
longer !  you  little  black  willyan,  you !  'Scat  I  you  hussy !  get 
out  o'  my  way,  before  I  twist  your  neck  for  you !" 

The  first  part  of  this  oration  was  delivered  by  Miss  Nancy 
fikamp,  to  some  half-dozen  negro  grooms  who  were  cooling 
their  shins  while  waiting  for  the  mail,  before  she  closed  the 
floors  and  windows  of  the  post-office;  the  second  part,  was 


THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS.          435 

addressed  to  Chizzle,  her  little  negro  waiter — and  the  third, 
concluding  sentence,  emphasized  by  a  smart  kick,  was  bestowed 
upon  poor  Molly,  the  mottled  cat.  The  village  post-office  was 
kept  in  the  lower  front  room  of  the  little  lonely  house  on  the 
hill,  occupied  by  the  solitary  spinster.  The  village  post-office 
establishment  consisted  principally  of  three  important  officials — 
namely,  Miss  Nancy  Skamp,  post-master ;  Chizzle,  first  assistant 
post-master ;  and  Pussy,  the  second  assistant.  The  obligatory 
duty  of  the  head  of  the  department  was  to  open  the  mails — the 
voluntarily  assumed  one  was  to  open  the  letters  also.  The  duty 
of  the  first  assistant  was  to  keep  the  fire  burning  and  the  water 
boiling,  and  to  hold  the  letters  with  the  wafers  to  the  steaming 
spout  until  they  were  soft  enough  to  be  opened  without  fracture. 
The  office  of  the  second  assistant  was  a  sinecure — her  labors 
being  seldom  extended  beyond  the  clawing  off"  the  envelope  of 
some  newspaper  during  a  fit  of  absent-minded  purring. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  Miss  Nancy  Skamp's  temper  was  un- 
usually tried  upon  this  occasion.  There  had  been  for  several 
weeks  past,  an  unusual  dearth  of  piquant  or  mysterious  letters, 
consequently  a  plentiful  scarcity  of  scandalous  news.  The 
mails  upon  this  day  were  also  unusually  fete,  the  day  was  bit- 
terly cold,  and  the  waiters  outside  uncommonly  impatient  and 
clamorous.  The  mail-bags  were  stuffed  remarkably  full,  and 
there  were  several  wonderful  letters,  that  she  felt  it  her  duty  to 
open  and  read  before  sending  to  their  owners.  In  addition  to 
all  this — (everybody  knows  that  petty  vexations  always  come 
in  swarms) — the  fire  of  green  bass  wood  would  not  burn — the 
kettle  would  not  boil — the  "  little  black  willyan  "  vainly  fanned 
great  clouds  of  smoke  and  ashes  all  over  her  head,  into  her 
face,  and  down  her  throat ;  and  the  negroes  outside  grew  every 
moment  more  vociferous — stamping  on  the  piazza  to  keep  their 
feet  warm,  rapping  with  the  ends  of  riding  whips  on  the  door 
to  hurry  the  post-mistress,  and  calling  out  to  know  if  the  mail 
were  not  opened  yet. 

"  Will  ye  take  your  letters  now,  or  will  ye  wait  till  ye  get 
'em— hey  ?"  asked  the  worthy  post-mistress,  as  she  shn  filed  said 


436  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

letters  in  her  hand,  laying  carefully  aside  those  siispendrd  for 
her  private  reading,  and  muttering  in  a  low  voice  alternately 
to  herself  and  to  Chizzle. 

"Le'see  now,  what's  this?  oh!  a  double  letter  for  Colone. 
Thornton — pshaw!  that's  all  about  political  stuff!  Who  cares 
about  reading  that  ?  /  don't !  He  may  have  it  to-night  if  he 
wants  it  I  Stop  !  what's  this  ?  Lors !  it's  a  thribble  letter  for — 
for  Marian  May  field  1  And  from  furrin  parts,  too  !  Now  I  won- 
der— (Can't  you  stop  that  caterwauling  out  there  ?"  she  said 
raising  her  voice.  "Sposen  you  niggers  were  to  wait  till  I 
<>!>en  the  office.  I  reckon  you'd  get  your  letters  just  as  soon.) 
Who  can  be  writing  from  furrin  parts  to  Marian  May  field  ? 
Taint  the  hand-writin'  of  that  Thomas  Truman  that  used  to 
write  to  her  in  Hebrew  or  Greek,  or  some  other  ungodly 
lingo,  as  I  couldn't  make  head  nor  tail  of — leastways,  yes  I 
could  make  head  and  tail  of  it,  too,  caze  the  head  was  'Ohere 
Marian,'  which  I  spose  meant  Cherry  Marian,  in  compliment  to 
her  lips ;  and  the  tail  was — Yotre  Thomas  Truman,  which  I 
s'pose  was — '  Vote  for  Thomas  Truman,'  which  might  o'  bin  his 
way  of  popping  the  question  for  aught  /  know,  or  ever  shall 
know  as  long  as  the  world  stands,  I  do  s'pose !  But  I  couldn't 
make  any  more  of  it !  and  never  shall  as  long  as  I  live,  I  do 
reckon  !  I  'dare  to  man,  it  makes  me  mad  every  time  I  think 
o'  the  frp.ud  as  was  put  upon  me  !  Shameful !  for  people  to  be 
writin'  in  Hebrew  and  Greek,  and  sich  unchristian  language  as 
people  can't  make  nothin'  of!  Where  there's  anything  to  be 
hidden  and  disguised  it's  something  evil — where  there's  secresy 
there's  guilt — I  know  that  myself.  Hish-ish-ish  !  Lors!  I  do 
Vlieve  I  was  talkirt  loud.  An'  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  some  o' 
them  creeturs  wa'nt  a-peeping  through  the  keyhole.  I  wouldn't 
have  'em  do  it  for  the  whole  world — it  would  ruin  me.  Say  ! 
you  little  black  imp!  Hish-ish-ish!  did  you  stuff  wool  tiyht  in 
that  keyhole?" 

"  Yes,  Mis'." 

"  Very  well,  that's  right!  Yes!  where  there's  mystery  there's 
guilt,  that  stands  to  reason !  Will  you  beat  the  doors  and 
windows  down,  then?1' 


THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS.          437 

"  Plfrjise,  Miss  Nancy,  Colonel  Thornton  is  waiting  out  bore, 
Miss,  if  you  please,"  said  a  negro's  voice. 

"Can't  help  it  if  two   Colonel  Thorntons  wait  twice  over! 
I  reckon  I  can't  open  the  office  till  I  open  the  mail!     Then 
turning  to  her  work  and  muttering  absently  she  said,  "  here's 
three  newspapers  for  Miss  Thornton — shant  have  them  till  I 
read  them  first,  no  how.     I  aint  going  to  be  so  'frauded  of  my 
rights,  nuther !  deed  aint  I !     I  spose  people  think  they  can 
trample  on  me,  cause  I'm  a  poor,  lone  'oman.     I'll  show  'em  !" 
"  Miss  Nancy,  here's  Dr.  Brightwell  waiting  too." 
"Let  Dr.  Brightwell  wait  till  I  send  for  him." 
"  Here  comes  Mr.  Thurston  Willcoxen  in  a  hurry." 
"  'Spose  Mr.  Thurston  Willcoxen  stays  till  his  hurry's  over  1" 
"Please,  mum,  if  here  don't  ride  Commodore  Waugh." 
"  Commodore  Waugh !     Oh,  Lors  !  now  the  game  is  up!" 
said  Miss  Nancy,  lowering  her  tone,  "/  shill  have  to  open  the 
door  anyhow,  I  do  s'pose,  letters  or  no  letters !     That  old  will- 
yaii  would  batter  the  walls  down,  and  blow  the  roof  off  the 
house  for  a  trifle !  jest  as  liefs  do  it  as  not.     The  old  brute ! 
Threatened  to  have  me  turned  out  of  office  !     The  old  mon- 
ster I     To  go  to  parsecute  a  poor,  lone  'oman  !     And  here  he 
comes  as  sure  as  fate.     Stay  !  let  me  hide  this  here  letter  of 
Marian's,  and  these  three  newspapers  of  Miss  Thornton's.     I 
reckon  them  are  all  I  shill  care  'bout  readin'  of  to-night.     And 
they  may  have  the  rest  on  'em,  the  greedy  souls !  how  eager 

they  are  to  grab  ! Well,  then,  yes !"  she  said,  raising  her 

voice,  "  Tell  the  Commodore  yes !  the  mail  is  ready,  and  here 
are  two  letters  from  Baltimore  for  him." 

The  window  shutters  and  the  door  were  opened,  daylight  and 
the  crowd  were  admitted  together,  and  the  letters  and  papers 
(with  the  exception  of  those  detained  by  Miss  Nancy  for  her 
private  reading)  were  distributed.  And  in  half-an-hour  the 
office  was  cleared,  and  the  crowd  dispersed. 

Colonel  Thornton  carried  disappointment  instead  of  news- 
papers home.    Miss  Thornton  passed  a  heavy  evening,  for  want 
of  fresh  reading.     But  Marian  the  most  seriously  defrauded  of 
3G* 


438  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

all — Marian  slept  in  peace,  not  dreaming  of  that  intercepted 
letter,  which,  had  it  reached  its  destination,  would  have  placed 
her  upon  the  pinnacle  of  fortune,  and — as  firmly  as  mere  wealth 
and  power  can  combine  to  do  it — upon  the  pinnacle  of  hap- 
piness also  1 

When  her  unruly  visitors  had  all  withdrawn,  and  when  Miss 
Nancy  had  closed  up  for  the  night,  discussed  her  cup  of  tea  and 
slice  of  toast,  trimmed  the  fire,  which,  after  sobbing  all  the 
afternoon,  at  last  burst  into  a  bright  flame,  swept  the  hearth- 
and  drawn  her  little  candlestand  up  before  it,  she  took  out  the 
letter  directed  to  Marian,  opened,  and  began  to  read  it.  And 
as  she  read,  her  eyes  and  mouth  grew  wider  and  wider  with  as- 
tonishment, and  her  wonder  broke  forth  in  frequent  exclamations 
of — " M- — y  conscience  1  Well  now  I  Who'd  a'  dreamt  of  it! 
Pity  but  I'd  a  let  Solomon  court  her  when  he  wanted  to — but 
Lors!  how  did  /  ever  know  that  she'd — M — y  conscience  1" 
<tc.,  &c.  So  great  was  her  wonder,  so  deep  her  absorption  by 
it,  that  she  forgot  all  about  Miss  Thornton's  papers,  and  left 
them  in  their  envelopes. 

Her  fit  of  abstraction  was  at  last  broken  by  a  smart  rap  at 
the  door. 

She  started  and  turned  pale,  like  the  guilty  creature  that  she 
was. 

The  rap  was  repeated  sharply. 

She  jumped  up,  hustled  the  purloined  letters  and  papers  out 
of  sight,  and  stood  waiting. 

The  rap  was  reiterated  loudly  and  authoritatively. 

"  Who's  that  ?"  she  asked,  trembling  violently 

"  It's  me,  Aunt  Nancy  !  Do  for  goodness  sake  don't  keep  A 
fellow  out  here  in  the  storm  till  he's  nearly  perished.  It's  com- 
ing on  to  hail  and  snow  like  the  last  judgment!" 

"Oh!  it's  you,  is  it,  Sol?  I  didn't  know  but  what  it  was 
Do  for  mercy's  sake  don't  be  talking  about  the  last  judg- 
ment, and  such  awful  things — I  declare  to  man,  you  put  me  all 
of  a  trimble,';  said  Miss  Nancy,  by  way  of  accounting  for  her 
palpitations,  as  she  unbarred  the  door,  and  admitted  her  learned 


THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS.          439 

neplicw.  Doctor  Solomon  "Weismann  seemed  dreadfully  down- 
hearted as  he  entered.  He  slowly  stamped  the  snow  from  his 
boots,  shook  it  off  his  clothes,  took  off  his  hat  and  his  over 
coat,  and  hang  them  up,  and  spoke — never  a  word  !  Then  he 
drew  his  chair  right  up  in  front  of  the  fire,  placed  a  foot  on 
each  andiron,  stooped  over,  spread  his  palms  over  the  kindly 
blaze,  and  still  spoke — never  a  word  1 

"Well!  I'd  like  to  know  what's  the  matter  with  you  to- 
night," said  Miss  Nancy,  as  she  went  about  the  room  looking 
for  her  knitting. 

But  the  doctor  stared  silently  at  the  fire. 

"  It's  the  latest  improvement  in  politeness — I  shouldn't  won- 
der— not  to  answer  your  elders  when  they  speak  to  you." 

"  Were  you  saying  anything  to  me,  aunt  Nancy  ?" 

"  ' AVas  I  saying  anything  to  you,  aunt  Nancy?'  Yes  I 
was  !  I  was  asking  you  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Oh !  I  never  was  so  dreadfully  low-spirited  in  my  life,  aunt 
Nancy." 

"  And  what  should  a  young  man  like  you  have  to  make  him 
feel  low-spirited,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Moping  about  Marian, 
I  shouldn't  wonder.  Well  I  I  aint  hard  on  young  people,  and 
if  you  must  have  her,  why,  I  suppose — " 

"Oh,  pshaw  1  Aunt  Nancy,  you  always  think  a  fellow's  in 
love.  If  I  were  an  old  lady  like  you,  I  wouldn't  be  always 
thinking  of  that." 

"  'Old  lady'  indeed,  you  impident  puppy  you!  Let  me  tell 
you,  I  am  in  the  prime  of  life,  sir!" 

"  Very  well,  aunt  Nancy  ;  but  falling  in  love  belongs  to  the 
immaturity  of  life." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  you're  talking  about,  you  con 
ceiled  fellow  you  1  But  ever  since  you  got  your  diploma,  you've 
been  so  much  too  knowing  for  me  that  I  can't  understand  more 
than  half  you  say." 

"  No  matter,  aunt  Nancy,  I  am  really  too  dreadfully  de- 
pressed to. quarrel  with  you  !" 

"Quarrel!     Goodness  knows,  /  don't  want  to  quarrel!     If 


440  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

everybody  hated  quarrelling  as  I  do,  it  would  be  a  peaceable 
world  !  Only  don't  throw  out  any  more  slurs  about  age,  if  you 
please.  And  now  tell  me,  what  makes  you  so  dreadful  down  in 
the  mouth  ?'' 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me!  By  Granny!  I  should  think  you  micrht 
know !  This  neighborhood  is  so  healthy,  it's  enough  to  make 
a  fellow  go  out  and  hang  himself!  There's  not  three  cases  of 
sickness  in  the  whole  district!" 

"  'Tis  bad!"  said  Miss  Nancy,  seriously.  "But  never  mind, 
Solomon,  trust  in  Providence.  Now  this  hail-storm  will  do 
something  for  you.  I  don't  doubt  there'll  be  several  cases  of 
cold,  and  rheumatism,  and  pleurisy,  'specially  'mong  the  nigger 
men  as  has  to  expose  themselves." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  They're  all  so  strong  they'll  stand  the 
storm,"  said  the  doctor,  morosely. 

"  Oh  !  you're  so  desponding  !  Well,  anyhow,  here's  Christ- 
mas and  New  Year  at  hand,  and  folks  will  gormandize  so  that 
they'll  be  sure  to  be  ill  1" 

"Don't  believe  it!  People  are  so  hearty  now,  they'll  stuff 
and  digest  like  anacondas !  Tell  me  !" 

"  Oh  !  you're  down  in  the  cellar  now !  You're  in  one  of  your 
hopeless  moods.  Why  can't  you  have  faith  and  hope  as  /  have  ? 
Consider  now  how  many  balls  and  parties  will  be  given  these 
holidays,  and  how  the  ladies  will  change  their  warm,  every-day 
clothes  for  ball  dresses,  and  dance  till  they  get  heated,  and  then 
go  out  in  the  cold  air.  I'll  warrant  there'll  be  a  plenty  of 
catarrhs,  and  sore  throats,  and  galloping  consumptions — never 
fear — keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  !" 

"  Aunt  Nancy,  you're  enough  to  make  a  fellow  shudder!  A 
fellow  aint  the  foul  fiend,  if  he  is  an  ambitious  young  doctor !" 

"Why?  I  don't  tell  you  to  make  people  expose  themselves 
and  get  ill ;  but  if  they  will  do  it,  you  can  help  them,  and  thank 
Providence  for  the  chance — that's  all." 

"  They  aint  going  to  expose  themselves  and  get  ill  for  my 
sake  !  the  world's  selfish,"  said  Solomon,  bitterly.  "I  feel  put 
IIJKH  by  fate  !  I  do  so  !  Here  I  haven't  had  but  two  patients 


THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS.          441 

the  whole  season  !  And  such  patients  as  they  were,  too  i  One 
was  el]  Mr.  Willcoxen  !  And  how  do  you  think  he  served  me  ? 
Why,  after  I  had  tended  him  four  months,  for  the  palsy,  and 
helped  him  a  great  deal,  too — when  I  handed  him  my  bill,  he 
flew  into  a  passion,  called  me  a  humbug,  swore  I  made  him 
worse,  refused  to  pay,  and  forbid  me  the  house !  And  the  other 
one  is  Jacquelina — who  is  enough  to  ruin  any  doctor  1  She 
wont  get  a  bit  better.  And  while  I  am  feeling  her  pulse,  she 
makes  up  a  look  as  solemn  as  an  owl's,  and  stares  right  into  my 
eyes  in  such  a  way,  that  it  is  as  much  as  ever  I  can  do  to  help 
bursting  right  out  laughing  in  her  face  !  I  have  to  think  of  the 
hour  of  death,  and  the  day  of  judgment,  and  everlasting  perdi- 
tion ;  and  if  they  wont  do — I  have  to  think  of  my  board  bill,  in 
order  to  maintain  professional  gravity  !  She'll  ruin  me  yet,  I 
know  she  will !  I  know  she  laughs  at  me  in  her  sleeve,  and 
ridicules  me  behind  my  back !  And  she  the  only  patient  I  have 
got,  or  am  likely  to  get.  All  the  women  take  such  precious 
good  care  of  themselves !" 

"Yes,  I  know  that!  And  do  you  know  who  has  taught  them 
All  that  self-care  !  I'll  tell  you !  It's  just  Marian  Mayfield  !  and 
it's  her  fault  that  the  people  are  so  healthy,  too !  With  her 
'word  spoken  in  season  !'  and  her  'line  upon  line,  and  precept 
apon  precept.'  Wonder  who  sent  her  as  a  missionary  among 
us?  Just  see  now  what  a  change  she's  made  among  the  girls  ! 
Time  was  when  young  ladies  about  here,  dressed  like  young 
ladies  and  not  like  old  women.  And  when  they  wore  nice  kid 
slippers,  and  fine  clock  stockings,  instead  of  the  thick  worsted 
hose  and  seal-skin  boots.  And  when  they  wore  pretty  bare 
arms  and  necks,  instead  of  being  covered  up  like  their  grand- 
mothers. Time  was  when  they  used  to  drink  tea  and  coffee 
like  Christians ;  not  new  milk,  like  young  calves.  But  it's  no 
use  talking,  they're  all  Marian-marf.  Look  at  that  old  noodle, 
Colonel  Thornton !  anybody'd  think  it  was  a  Queen  he  was 
bending  to !" 

"  There's  not  a  pulpit  in  this  county  disseminates  as  strong 
an  influence  as  Marian's  school  chair !"  ^aid  the  young  doctor, 
emphatically. 


442  THE      MlSSI^e      BRIDE. 

"  Well — I  aint  denying  that.  And  the  girl  is  a  good  girl 
enough,  if  she'd  only  mind  her  own  business,  and  not  let  people 
spoil  her.  And,  as  I  was  saying  before,  if  you  do  like  her,  and 
must  have  her,  why  I  shan't  make  no  further  objections." 

Here  the  young  doctor,  who  had  been  gazing  moodily  into 
tlu  fire,  turned  shortly  around  and  stared  at  his  aunt  in  unmea- 
sured astonishment ! 

"  Hem !"  said  Miss  Nancy,  looking  confused,  "  well,  yes,  / 
did  oppose  it  once,  certainly,  but  that  was  because  you  were 
both  poor." 

"  And  we  are  both  poor  still,  for  aught  that  I  can  see,  and 
likely  to  continue  so." 

"Hish-ish!  no  you're  not!  leastways,  she's  not.  I've  got 
something  very  strange  to  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Nancy,  myste- 
riously drawing  her  chair  up  close  to  her  nephew,  and  putting 
her  lips  to  his  ear,  and  whispering — "Hish-ish!" 

"  '  Hish-ish, f  What  are  you  'hish-ish'ing  for,  Aunt  Nancy, 
/'/«  not  saying  anything,  and  your  breath  spins  into  a  fellow's 
ear  enough  to  give  him  an  ear-ache !"  said  Doctor  Solomon, 
jerking  his  head  away. 

"  Don't  talk  so  loud  ?     You  make  me  scarey  as  anything  !" 

"  Vm  not  talking  loud,  Aunt  Nancy  !  I  wonder  what  you're 
up  to  !" 

"  Hish-ish  /" 

"Now  there's  '  hish-ish  !'  again  right  into  my  ear  like  a  gim- 
blet !  I  declare  I'd  rather  be  out  in  the  storm !" 

"Hish-ish!  don't  talk." 

"/'m  not  talking!" 

"  You  are — you  keep  on  talking  !  put  a  seal  upon  your  lips, 
and  listen  to  me !  but  are  you  sure  you  wont  tell !" 

"  Tell !  no!  what  am  /  to  tell  1" 

"  There — now  you're  talking  again !     Ilish-ish-ish  /" 

With  a  spring  and  a  groan,  Doctor  Solomon  clapped  one 
hand  to  his  afflicted  ear,  and  the  other  over  his  lips,  with  the 
desperate  resolution  to  seal  the  one  and  save  the  other  in  per 
feet  sileiice. 


THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS.          443 

"  Now  then  listen — Marian  Mayfield  has  got  a  fortune  left  to 
ner." 

Miss  Nancy  paused  to  see  the  effect  of  this  startling  piece  of 
news  upon  her  companion. 

But  the  doctor  was  not  sulky,  and  upon  his  guard ;  so  after 
an  involuntary  slight  start,  he  remained  perfectly  still.  Miss 
Nancy  was  disappointed  by  the  calm  way  in  which  he  took  this 
marvelous  revelation.  However,  she  went  on  to  say : 

"  Yes !  a  fortune  left  her,  by  a  grand  uncle,  a  bachelor,  who 
died  intestate,  in  Wiltshire,  England.  Now,  what  do  you  think 
of  that !  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  I  declare  I  never  saw  such 
a  log  ;  can't  you  speak  ?" 

"  You  told  me  not  to  talk,  just  now.  I  declare  it's  very  hard 
to  please  you!" 

"ffi'sh-ish!" 

"Ugh !"  cried  the  doctor,  starting  and  clapping  his  hand  to 
his  ear  again. 

"  I  meant  you  must  not  talk  loud  enough  for  anybody  to  hear 
that  might  be  listening.  Now  then  speak  low,  and  tell  me  what 
you  think  about  Marian's  having  that  fortune  left  her." 

"  Why,  I  think  if  she  wouldn't  have  me  when  she  was  poor, 
she  wont  be  apt  to  do  it  now  she's  rich." 

"  Ah  !  but  you  see,  she  don't  know  a  word  of  it !" 

"How  do  you  know  it  then  ?" 

"ffish'ishf  I'll  tell  you  if  you  will  never  tell.  Oh,  Lors> 
no,  you  mustn't  indeed!  You  wouldn't,  I  know,  'cause  h 
would  ruin  us  !  Listen — " 

"  Now,  Aunt  Nancy,  don't  be  letting  me  into  any  of  your 
capital  crimes  and  hanging  secrets — don't!  because  I  don't  want 
to  hear  them,  and  I  wont,  neither !  I  aint  used  to  such  !  and 
I'm  afraid  of  them,  too  !" 

"  Traid  'o  what?  Nobody  can  prove  it,"  answered  Misa 
Nancy,  a  little  incoherently. 

"  You  know  what  better  than  I  do,  Aunt  Nancy;  and  let  me 
tell  you,  you'd  better  be  careful  1  The  eyes  of  the  community 
arc  upon  you." 


444  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Let  'era  prove  it !  Let  'em  prove  it !  They  aint  got  no 
witnesses !  Chizzle  and  the  cat  aiut  no  witnesses,"  said  Mis.s 
-Nancy,  obscurely;  "let  'era  do  their  worst!  I  reckon  /  know 
something  about  law  as  well  as  they  do  !  if  I  am  a.  lone  'ornan  !" 

"  They  can  procure  your  removal  from  office  without  proving 
anything  against  you  except  unpopularity." 

"  That's  Commodore  Waugh's  plan !  the  ugly,  wicked,  old 
buggaboo !  'Taint  such  great  shakes  of  an  ornce  neither,  the 
dear  knows !" 

"Never  mind,  Aunt  Nancy,  mend  your  ways,  *ai  maybe 
they'll  not  disturb  you.  And  don't  tell  me  any  of  your  capital 
secrets,  because  /  might  be  summoned  as  a  witness  against  you, 
which  would  not  be  so  agreeable  to  my  feelings— you  under- 
stand !  And  now  tell  me  if  you  are  absolutely  certain  that 
Miss  Mayfield  has  had  that  fortune  left  her.  But  stop  1  don't 
tell  me  how  you  found  it  out!" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  am  certain — sure,  she  has  a  great  fortune  left 
her.  I  have  the  positive  proofs  of  it.  And,  moreover,  nobody 
in  this  country  don't  know  it  but  wz^self — and  you.  And  now 
I  tell  you,  don't  hint  the  matter  to  a  soul.  Be  spry !  dress 
yourself  up  jam !  and  go  a  courting  before  anybody  else  linds 
it  out!" 

"But  that  would  scarcely  be  honorable  either,"  demurred  the 
doctor. 

"You're  mighty  particular!  Yes,  it  would,  too!  jest  you 
listen  to  me !  Now  if  so  be  we  were  to  go  and  publish  about 
Marian's  fortune,  we'd  have  a  whole  herd  of  fortune  hunters, 
who  don't  care  a  cent  for  anything  but  fortune,  running  after 
and  worrying  the  life  out  of  her,  and  maybe  one  of  them  mar- 
rying of  her,  and  spending  of  her  money,  and  bringing  of  her  to 
poverty,  and  breaking  of  her  heart.  Whereas,  if  we  keep  the 
secret  of  the  estate  to  ourselves,  you,  who  desarvc  her,  because 
you  'counted  her  all  the  same  when  she  was  poor,  and  who'd 
take  good  care  of  her  property,  and  her,  too — would  have  her 
ail  to  yourself,  and  nobody  to  interfere.  Don't  you  see?" 

"Well,  to  be  sure — when  one  looks  at  the  thing  in  that 
light — ''  deliberated  the  sorely  tempted  lover. 


THE   VILLAGE   POSTMISTRESS.    445 

"  Of  course !  And  that's  the  only  light  to  look  at  it  in !  Don't 
you  see  ?  Why,  by  gracious !  it  seems  to  me  as  if  we  were  doing 
Marian  the  greatest  favor." 


In  the  meantime  Marian's  heart  was  weighed  down  by  a  new 
cause  of  sorrow  and  anxiety.  Thurston  never  approached  her 
now  either  in  person,  or  by  letter.  She  never  saw  him  except  at 
the  church,  the  lecture  room,  or  in  mixed  companies,  where  he 
kept  himself  aloof  from  her  and  devoted  himself  to  the  beautiful 
and  accomplished  heiress  Angelica  Le  Roy,  to  whom  rumor 
gave  him  as  an  accepted  suitor. 

So  free  was  Marian's  pure  heart  from  jealousy  or  suspicion, 
that  these  attentions  bestowed  by  Thurston,  and  these  rumors 
circulated  in  the  neighborhood,  gave  her  no  uneasiness.  For 
though  she  had,  for  herself,  discovered  him  to  be  passionate 
and  impetuous,  she  believed  him  to  be  sound  in  principle.  But 
when  again  and  again  she  saw  them  togethei',  at  church,  at  lec- 
ture, at  dinner  parties,  at  evening  dances ;  when  at  all  tho 
Christmas  and  New  Year  festivities,  she  saw  her  escorted  by 
him;  when  she  saw  him  ever  at  her  side  with  a  devotion  as 
earnest  and  ardent  as  it  was  perfectly  respectful ;  when  she  sa\v 
him  bend  and  whisper  to  the  witching  girl  and  hang  delighted 
on  her  "  low  replies,"  her  own  confidence  was  shaken.  What 
could  he  mean  ?  Was  it  possible,  that  instead  of  being  merely 
impulsive  and  erring,  he  was  deliberately  wicked  ?  No,  no, 
never !  Yet,  what  could  be  his  intentions  ?  Did  he  really 
wish  to  win  Angelica's  heart?  Alas,  whether  he  wished  so  or 
not,  it  was  but  too  evident  to  all  that  he  had  gained  her  pre- 
ference. In  her  blushing  cheek  and  downcast  eyes,  and  tremu- 
lous voice  and  embarrassed  manner,  when  he  was  present — 
in  her  abstracted  mind,  and  restless  air  and  wandering  glance* 
when  he  was  absent,  the  truth  was  but  too  clear. 

Marian  was  far  too  practical  to  speculate  when  she  ehon-M 
act.     It  was  clearly  her  duty  to  speak  to  Thurstou  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  repugnant  as  the  task  was,  she  resolved  to  perform  it 
It  was  sometime  before  she  had  the  opportunity. 
28 


446  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

But  at  last,  one  afternoon  in  February,  she  chanced  to  moot 
Tlmrston  on  the  sea  beach.  After  greeting  him,  she  candidly 
opened  the  subject.  She  spoke  gently  and  delicately,  but 
liriuly  and  plainly,  more  so,  perhaps,  than  another  woman  in  the 
same  position  would  have  done,  for  Marian  was  eminently  frank 
and  fearless,  especially  where  conscience  was  concerned. 

And  Thurston  met  her  arguments  with  a  graceful  noncha- 
lance, as  seemingly  polite  and  good  humored,  as  it  was  really 
ironical  and  insulting. 

Marian  gave  him  time — she  was  patient  as  firm — and  firm  as 
sorrowful.  And  not  until  every  argument  and  persuasion  lutd 
failed,  she  said — 

"  As  a  last  resort,  it  may  be  necessary  for  me  to  wsra  Miss 
Le  Roy — not  for  my  own  sake.  Were  I  alone  involved,  you 
know  how  much  I  would  endure  rather  than  grieve  you.  But 
this  young  lady  must  not  suffer  wrong." 

"  You  will  write  her  an  anonymous  letter,  possibly  ?" 

"  No — I  never  take  an  indirect  road  to  an  object." 

"  What  then  can  you  do,  fair  saint  ?" 

"  See  Miss  Le  Roy,  personally." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  What  apology  could  you  possibly  wake  for 
such  an  unwarrantable  interference  ?" 

"  The  Lord  kuoweth !  /  do  not  now.  But  I  trust  to  be 
able  to  save  her  without revealing  you." 

"  Do  you  imagine  that  vague  warnings  would  have  any  effect 
upon  her?" 

"  Coming  from  me  they  would." 

"  Heavens !  What  a  self- worshiper  !  But  selfishness  is  your 
normal  state,  Marian !  Self-love  is  your  only  affection— si- it- 
adulation  your  only  enthusiasm — self- worship  your  only  reli- 
gion !  You  do  not  desire  to  be  loved — you  wish  only  to  be 
honored!  The  love  I  offered  yon,  you  trampled  under  foot  I 
You  have  no  heart,  you  have  only  a  brain  !  You  cannot  love, 
you  can  only  think !  Nor  have  you  any  need  of  love,  but  only 
of  power!  Applause  is  your  vital  breath,  your  native  air!  Tn 
hear  your  name  and  praise  on  every  tongue — tl>at  is  your  high- 


THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS.          447 

est  ambition  !  Such  a  woman  should  be  a  gorgon  ot  ugliness 
that  men  might  not  waste  their  hearts'  wealth  upon  her  1"  ex 
claimed  Thurstou  bitterly,  gazing  with  murky  eyes,  that  mould- 
ered with  suppressed  passion,  upon  the  beautiful  girl  before  him. 

Marian  was  standing  with  her  eyes  fixed  abstractedly  upon  a 
distant  sail.  Now  the  tears  swelled  under  the  large  white  eye- 
lids and  hung  glittering  on  the  level  lashes,  and  her  lip  quivered 
and  her  voice  faltered  slightly  as  she  answered — 

"You  see  me  through  a  false  medium,  dear  Thurston,  but 
the  time  will  come  when  you  will  know  me  as  I  am." 

"  I  fancy  the  time  has  come.  It  has  also  come  for  me  to 
enlighten  you  a  little.  And  in  the  first  place,  fair  queen  of 
minds,  if  not  of  hearts,  let  me  assure  you  that  there  is  a  limit 
even  to  your  almost  universal  influence.  And  that  limit  may 
be  found  in  Miss  Le  Roy.  You,  who  know  the  power  of 
thought  only,  cannot  weigh  nor  measure  the  power  of  love. 
Upon  Miss  Le  Roy  your  warnings  would  have  no  effect  what- 
ever. I  tell  you  that  in  the  face  of  them,  (were  I  so  disposed,) 
I  might  lead  that  girl  to  the  altar  to-morrow." 

Marian  was  sileut,  not  deeming  an  answer  called  for. 

''  And  now  I  ask  you  how  you  could  prevent  it  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  be  required  to  prevent  such  an  act,  Thurston,  asi 
such  a  one  never  can  take  place.  You  speak  so  only  to  try 
your  Marian's  faith  or  temper — both  are  proof  against  jests,  I 
think.  Hitherto  you  have  trifled  with  the  young  lady's  affec- 
tions from  mure  ennui  and  thoughtlessness,  I  do  believe !  but, 
now  that  some  of  the  evil  consequences  have  been  suggested  to 
your  mind,  you  will  abandon  such  perilous  pastime.  You  are 
going  to  France  soon — that  will  be  a  favorable  opportunity  of 
breaking  off  the  acquaintance." 

"And  breaking  her  heart — who  knows.  But  suppose  now 
that  I  should  prefer  to  marry  her  and  take  her  with  me  ?" 

"Xay,  of  course  I  cannot  for  an  instant  suppose  such  a 
thing. 

"  But  in  spite  of  al'  your  warnings  were  such  an  event  about 
to  take  place  ?" 


448  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  In  such  an  exigency  I  should  divulge  our  marriage." 

"  You  would  ?" 

"  Assuredly  1  How  can  you  possibly  doubt  it  ?  Such  an 
event  would  abrogate  my  obligations  to  silence,  and  would  im- 
pose upon  me  the  opposite  duty  of  speaking." 

"  I  judged  you  would  reason  so,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  But,  dear  Thurston,  of  what  are  you  talking.  Of  the  event 
of  your  doing  an  unprincipled  act!  Impossible,  dear  Thurston  I 
and  forever  impossible !" 

"  And  equally  impossible,  fair  saint,  that  you  should  divulge 
onr  marriage  with  any  chance  of  proving  it.  Marian,  the 
minister  that  married  us  has  sailed  as  a  missionary  to  Farther 
India.  And  I  only  have  the  certificate  of  our  marriage.  You 
cannot  prove  it." 

"  I  shall  not  need  to  prove  it,  Thurston.  Now  that  I  have 
awakened  your  thoughts,  I  know  that  you  will  not  further  risk 
the  peace  of  that  confiding  girl.  Come  1  take  my  hand  and  let 
us  return.  We  must  hasten,  too,  for  there  is  rain  in  that 
cloud." 

Thurston — piqued  that  he  could  not  trouble  her  more — for 
under  her  calm  and  unruffled  face  he  could  not  see  the  bleeding 
heart — arose  sullenly,  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm  and  led  her 
forth. 

And  as  they  went  the  wind  arose,  and  the  storm  clouds  drove 
over  the  sky  and  lowered  and  darkened  around  them. 

Marian  urged  him  to  walk  fast  upon  the  account  of  the  ap- 
proaching tempest,  end  the  anxiety  the  family  at  the  collage 
would  feel  upon  her  account. 

They  hurried  onward,  but  just  as  they  readied  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Old  Fields  a  terrible  storm  of  hail  and  snow  burst  upon 
the  earth. 

It  was  as  much  as  they  could  do  to  make  any  progress  for 
ward,  or  even  to  keep  themselves  upon  their  feet.  While 
struggling  and  plunging  blindly  through  the  storm,  amid  the 
rushing  of  the  wind  and  the  rattling  of  the  hail,  and  the  craok 
iiug  aud  creaking  of  the  dry  trees  in  the  forest,  and  the  rush  of 


THE      VILLAGE      POSTMISTRESS.  449 

waters,  and  all  the  din  of  the  tempest,  Marian's  ear  caught  the 
Round  of  a  child  wailing  and  sobbing.  A  pang  shot  through 
her  heart.  She  listened  breathlessly — and  then  in  the  pauses 
of  the  storm  she  heard  a  child  crying — "  Marian,  Marian.  Oh! 
where  are  you,  Marian  ?" 

It  was  Miriam's  voice !  It  was  Miriam  wandering  in  night 
and  storm  in  search  of  her  beloved  nurse. 

•Marian  dropped  Thurston's  arm  and  plunged  blindly  forward 
through  the  snow,  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  crying — "  Here 
I  :iin  my  darling,  my  treasure — here  I  am.  What  brought  my 
baby  out  this  bitter  night?"  she  asked,  as  she  found  the  child 
half  perishing  with  cold  and  wet,  and  caught  and  strained  her 
to  her  bosom. 

"  Oh,  the  hail  and  snow  came  down  so  fast,  and  the  wind 
shook  the  house  so  hard,  and  I  could  not  sleep  in  the  warm  bed 
while  you  were  out  in  the  storm.  So  I  stole  softly  down  to  find 
you.  Don't  go  again,  Marian.  I  love  you  so — oh !  I  love 
you  so!" 

At  this  moment  the  child  caught  sight  of  Thurston  standing 
with  his  face  half  muffled  in  his  cloak.  A  figure  to  be  strangely 
recognized  under  similar  circumstances  in  after  years.  Then 
she  did  not  know  him ;  but  inquired — 

"  Who  is  that,  Marian  ?" 

"A  friend,  dear,  who  came  home  with  me.    Good  night,  sir." 

And  so  dismissing  Thurston  he  walked  rapidly  away.     Sho 
hurried  with  Miriam  into  the  house. 
37* 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

ONE       OF      SANS       SOUCl's      TRICKS. 

"  Of  all  surprising,  strange,  affecting  things 
That  sorrow  meets  with  in  a  world  of  sorrow, 
The  strangest  sure  those  smiles  of  merriment, 
Those  sudden  bursts  of  irrepressible  glee, 
That  like  the  fountain  of  some  inner  gladness 
Spring  in  the  heart  of  childhood  mid  its  grief, 
And  turn  its  tears  to  laughter." 

SANS  Souci  stood  before  the  parlor  mirror,  gazing  into  it, 
seeing — not  the  reflected  image  of  her  own  elfish  figure,  or 
pretty,  witching  face,  with  its  round,  polished  forehead,  ita 
mocking  eyes,  its  sunny,  dancing  curls,  its  piquant  little  nose, 
or  petulant  little  lips — but  contemplating,  as  through  a  magic 
glass,  far  down  the  vista  of  her  childhood — childhood  scarcely 
past,  yet  in  its  strong  contrast  to  the  present,  seeming  so 
distant,  dim,  and  unreal,  that  her  reminiscence  of  its  days  resem- 
bled more  a  vague  dream  of  a  pre-existence,  than  a  rational 
recollection  of  a  part  of  her  actual  life  on  earth.  Poor  Jacko 
was  wondering  "  If  I  be  I  ?" 

Grim'  sat  in  a  leathern  chair,  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the 
room,  occupied  with  holding  a  book  and  reading  Jacquelina. 
Suddenly  he  broke  into  her  brown  study  by  exclaiming, 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  you  are  doing,  and  how  long 
you  intend  to  remain  standing  before  that  glass." 

"  Oh  !  indeed  !  should  you  ?"  mocked  Jacko,  startled  out  of 
her  reverie,  yet  instantly  remembering  to  be  provoking. 

"  What  were  you  doing,  and — " 

"  Looking  at  myself  in  the  glass,  to  be  sure." 

"Don't  cut  off  my  question,  if  you  please.  I  was  going  on 
to  inquire  of  what  you  were  thinking  so  profoundly.  Aud 
Madam,  or  Miss — " 

"  Madam,  if  you  please !  the  dear  knows,  I  paid  heavy 
enough  for  my  new  dignity,  and  don't  intend  to  abate  one 
(450) 


ONE      OF      SANS      SOUCl's      TRICKS.       451 

decree  of  it.  So  if  you  call  me  Miss  again,  I'll  get  some  one 
who  loves  me  to  call  you  '  out !'  Besides,  I'd  have  you  to  know  ! 
I'm  very  proud  of  it.  Aint  you,  too  ?  Say,  Grim' !  Aintyou 
a  proud  and  happy  man  to  be  married  ?"  asked  Jucko, 
tauntingly. 

"  You  jibe  !  You  do  so  with  a  purpose.  But  it  shall  not 
avail  you.  I  demand  to  know  the  subject  of  your  thoughts  as 
you  stood  before  that  mirror." 

Now  none  but  a  half  mad  man  like  Grim'  would  have  gravely 
made  such  a  demand,  or  exposed  himself  to  such  a  reburt'  as  it 
deserved.  Jacko  looked  at  him  quizzically. 

••Jlcin  /"  she  answered,  demurely.  "  I'm  sure  I'm  so  awe- 
stricken,  your  worship,  that  I  can  scarcely  find  the  use  of  my 
tongue  to  obey  your  reverence.  I  hope  your  excellency  wont 
be  offended  with  me.  But  I  was  wondering  in  general,  whether 
the  Lord  really  did  make  all  the  people  upon  earth,  and  in  par- 
ticular, whether  lie  made  you,  and  if  so,  for  what  inscrutable 
reason  He  did  it." 

"  You  are  an  impertinent  minion.  But,  by  the  saints,  I  will 
have  an  answer  to  my  question,  and  know  what  you  were  think- 
ing of  while  gazing  in  that  mirror." 

"Sorry  the  first  explanation  didn't  please  your  eminence. 
But  now,  'honor  bright!'  I'll  tell  you  truly  what  I  was  think- 
ing of.  I  was  thinking — thinking  how  excessively  pretty  I  am. 
Now,  tell  the  truth,  and  shame  the  old  gentleman.  Did  you  ever, 
in  all  your  life,  see  such  a  beautiful,  bewitching,  tantalizing, 
ensnaring  face  as  mine  is  ?" 

"  I  think  I  never  saw  such  a  fool  I" 

"  Really?  Then  your  holiness  never  looked  at  yourself  in  a 
mirror  !  never  beheld  'your  natural  face  in  a  glass!'  never  saw 
'  what  manner  of  man'  you  are." 

"By  St.  Peter  1  I  will  not  be  insulted,  and  dishonored,  and 
defied  in  this  outrageous  manner.  I  swear  I  will  have  your 
thoughts,  if  I  have  to  pluck  them  from  your  heart." 

"  \Vhe-ew  !  Well,  if  I  didn't  always  think  thought  was  free, 
may  I  never  be  an  interesting  young  widow,  and  captivate 
Thurston  Willcoxcu." 


4.y2  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"You  impudent,  audacious,  abandoned — 

"  Ching  a  ring  a  ring  chum  chool 
And  a  hio  ring  turn  larky !" 

sang  the  elf,  dancing  about,  seizing  the  bellows  and  flourishing 
it  over  her  head  like  a  tambourine,  as  she  danced. 

"  Be  still,  you  termagant.  Be  still,  you  lunatic,  or  1 11 
have  you  put  in  a  straight  jacket!"  cried  the  exasperated  Pro- 
lessor. 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  said  Jacko,  dropping  the  bellows  and  sidling 
up  to  him  in  a  wheedling,  mock  sympathetic  manner  "  P-o-o-r 
f-e-1-l-o-w  !  don't  get  excited  and  go  into  the  high-strikes. 
You  can't  help  it  if  you're  ugly  and  repulsive  as  Time  in  the 
Primer,  any  more  than  Thurston  Willcoxen  can  help  being 
liandsome  and  attractive  as  Magnus  Apollo." 

"  It  was  of  HIM,  then,  you  were  thinking,  minion.  I  knew  it. 
I  knew  it!"  exclaimed  the  professor,  starting  up,  throwing 
down  his  book,  and  pacing  the  floor. 

"Bear  it  like  a  man  !"  said  Jacko,  with  solemnity. 

"You  admit  it,  then.     You — you — you — " 

" 'Unprincipled  female.'  There!  I  have  helped  you  to  the 
words.  And  now,  if  you  will  be  melo-dramatic,  you  should  grip 
up  your  hair  with  both  hands,  and  stride  up  and  down  the  floor 
and  vociferate,  '  Confusion  !  distraction  I  perdition  !'  or  any 
other  awful  Avords  you  can  think  of.  TliaCs  the  way  they  do  it 
in  the  plays." 

"  Madam,  your  impertinence  is  growing  beyond  sufferance. 
T  cannot  endure  it." 

"  That's  a  mighty  great  pity,  now,  for  you  can't  cure  it." 

"  St.  Mary !  I  will  bear  this  no  longer." 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  emigrate  !" 

"  I'll  commit  suicide." 

"  That's  you  !  Do!  I  should  like  very  well  to  wear  bombazine 
this  cold  weather.  Please  do  it  at  once,  too,  if  you're  going 
to,  for  I  should  rather  be  out  of  deep  mourning  by  midsummer  !' 

"By  Heaven,  I  \i\\\pay  you  for  this." 


ONE      OF      SANS      SOUCI'S      TRICKS.         453 

"Anytime  at  your  convenience,  Doctor  Grimshaw!  And 
I  shall  be  ready  to  give  you  a  receipt  in  full  upon  the  spot  I" 
said  the  elf,  rising.  "Anything  else  in  my  line  this  morning, 
Doctor  Grimshaw  ?  Give  me  a  call  when  you  come  my  way  ! 
I  shall  be  much  obliged  for  your  patronage,"  she  continued, 
curtseying  and  dancing  off  towards  the  door.  "  By  tne  way, 
my  dear  sir,  there  is  a  lecture  to  be  delivered  this  evening,  by 
our  gifted  young  fellow-citizen,  Mr.  Thurston  Willcoxen.  Going 
to  hear  him?  I  am!  Good-day !"  she  said,  and  kissed  her 
hand  and  vanished. 

Grim'  was  going  crazy  !  Everybody  said  it,  and  what  every- 
body says,  has  ever  been  universally  received  as  indisputable 
testimony.  Many  people,  indeed,  averred  that  Grim'  never  had 
been  quite  right — that  he  always  had  been  queer,  and  that  since 
his  mud  marriage  with  that  flighty  bit  of  a  child,  Jacquelina,  he 
had  been  queerer  than  ever. 

He  would  have  been  glad  to  prevent  Jacquelina  from  going 
to  the  lecture  upon  the  evening  in  question ;  but  there  was  no 
reasonable  excuse  for  doing  so.  Everybody  went  to  the  lec- 
tures, which  were  very  popular.  Mrs.  Waugh  made  a  point 
of  being  punctually  present  at  every  one.  And  she  took  charge 
of  Jacquelina,  whenever  the  whim  of  the  latter  induced  her  to 
go,  which  was  as  often  as  she  secretly  wished  to  "  annoy  Grim'.  " 
And,  in  fact,  "  to  plague  the  Ogre  "  was  her  only  motive  in 
being  present,  for,  truth  to  tell,  the  elf  cared  very  little  either 
for  the  lecturer  or  his  subjects,  and  usually  spent  the  whole  even- 
ing in  yawning  behind  her  pocket  handkerchief.  Upon  this 
evening,  however,  the  lecture  fixed  even  the  flighty  fancy  of 
Jacquelina,  as  she  sat  upon  the  front  seat  between  Mrs.  Waugh 
and  Doctor  Grimshaw.  The  subject  of  the  discourse  was. 
"  The  Progress  of  Civilization."  Thurston  was  in  one  of  his 
most  inspired  moods,  and  his  lecture  was  a  glorious  pano- 
rama of  history — a  succession  of  glowing  pictures,  each  present- 
ing, iu  living  form  and  color,  some  marked  page  in  the  book 
of  the  world — some  distinct  stage  in  the  progress  of  society. 
Under  his  masterly  hand,  you  saw  the  tents  and  herds  of  the 


•1  :">!  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

patriarchs,  the  rude  architecture  and  the  ruder  manners  that 
succeeded  ;  next  Egypt,  in  her  haughty  days  ;  Greece  iu  her 
glory  and  in  her  degradation  ;  Home  in  her  rise  and  progress, 
and  decline  and  fall  ;  the  feudal  times;  the  Crusades;  the  He- 
formation;  the  settlement  of  the  New  World;  and  through  all 
these  ran  that  fine,  discriminating  philosophy  that  lent  the 
greatest  charm  to  his  discourse.  He  showed  how  the  radical- 
ism of  one  age  became  the  conservatism  of  the  succeeding  one  ; 
how  the  martyred  of  one  century  became  the  canonized  of  the 
next.  He  said  that  there  were  many  good  conservative  Chris- 
tians in  this  age,  who,  had  they  lived  in  the  days  of  Christ, 
would,  from  their  temperament  and  disposition,  have  been  very 
conservative  Jews,  and  been  among  the  first  to  cry  "  Crucify 
Him!  Crucify  Him!" 

Jacquelina  was  magnetised,  and  scarcely  took  her  eyes  from 
the  speaker  during  the  whole  discourse.  Mrs.  Waugh  was  also 
too  much  interested  to  notice  her  companions.  Grim'  was 
agonized.  The  result  of  the  whole  of  which  was — that  after 
they  all  got  home,  Doctor  Grimshaw — to  use  a  common  but 
graphic  phrase — "  put  his  foot  down"  upon  the  resolution  to 
prevent  Jaequelina's  future  attendance  at  the  lectures.  Whether 
he  would  have  succeeded  in  keeping  her  away  is  very  doubt- 
ful, had  not  a  remarkably  inclement  season  of  weather  set  in, 
and  lasted  a  fortnight,  leaving  the  roads  nearly  impassable  for 
two  other  weeks.  And  just  as  traveling  was  getting  to  be  pos- 
sible, Thurston  Willcoxen  was  called  to  Baltimore,  on  his 
grandfather's  business,  and  was  absent  a  fortnight.  So,  alto- 
gether, six  weeks  had  passed  without  Jacquelina's  finding  an 
opportunity  to  defy  Doctor  Grimshaw,  by  attending  the  lectures 
against  his  consent. 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  on  Sunday  morning,  it  was  an- 
nounced in  the  church  that  Mr.  Willcoxen  having  returned  to 
the  county,  would  resume  his  lectures  on  the  Wednesday  even 
ing  following.  Doctor  Grimshaw  looked  at  Jacquelina,  to  note 
how  she  would  receive  this  news.  Poor  Jacko  had  been  under 
Marian's  good  influences  for  the  week  previous,  and  was,  iu  her 


ONE      OF      SANS      SOUCl'S      TRICKS.          4f>5 

fitful  and  uncertain  way,  "trving  to  be  good."  "As  an  expe- 
riment to  please  yon,  Marian,"  she  said,  "  and  to  see  how  it  will 
answer."  Poor  elf!  S)  she  called  up  no  false,  provoking  smile 
of  joy,  to  drive  Grim'  frantic,  but  heard  the  news  of  Thurston's 
arrival  with  the  outward  calmness  that  was  perfectly  true  to  the 
perfect  inward  indifference. 

"  She  has  grown  guarded — that  is  a  very  bad  sign — I  shall 
watch  her  the  closer,"  muttered  Grim'  behind  his  closed  teeth. 
And  when  the  Professor  went  home  that  day,  his  keen,  pallid 
face  was  frightful  to  look  upon.  And  many  were  the  comments 
made  by  the  dispersing  congregation. 

"  I  fell  in  long  o'  Doctor  Grimsay,  to-day  at  church,  Miss 
Edif — and  'clare  to  Marster,  he  look  so  sharp  and  wild  I  was 
right  'fraid  o'  him,"  said  Jenny,  that  day,  as  she  put  dinner  on 
the  table. 

"Did  you  see  Professor  Grimshaw  ?  What  can  be  the  mat- 
ter with  that  man  ?"  inquired  Miss  Thornton,  of  her  brother. 

"  An  ill  balanced  mind,"  answered  the  Colonel,  oracularly. 
"  No  man  with  a  head  shaped  like  his,  can  be  perfectly  sane." 

"  Miss  Jackeelar,  honey,  I  doesn't  want  to  give  no  'fence  to 
nobody,  specially  you;  but  you  take  my  'vice  and  don't  'voke 
de  'fessor !  Gaze,  child,  I  cotch  my  eye  on  him  as  he  come  in 
— an'  ef  ever  I  seed  a  man  'sessed  o'  Sara,  'tis  he,  now  mine  I 
tell  you,''  said  Old  Oliver,  putting  his  head  into  Jacquelina's 
sanctum,  and  whispering  mysteriously. 

"  My  good  soul,  suppose  you  mind  your  turkeys  and  geese, 
and  leave  family  affairs  of  importance  to  the  proper  authori- 
ties," replied  Jacquelina,  impatiently. 

The  crest-fallen  old  creature  bowed  humbly  and  withdrew, 
shutting  the  door  carefully  behind  him.  But  scarcely  had  the 
Bound  of  his  slow  footsteps  died  away,  when  the  door  opened 
again,  and  Mrs.  Waugh  entered.  She  sat  down  by  Jacque- 
lina, and  asked, 

"  My  dear  child,  did  you  notice  the  Professor?  What  cnn 
ail  him  ?" 

"  My  dear   aunty,  I'm   not   a  thermometer,  to  record   the 


456  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

changes  of  weather  in  Doctor  Grimshavv's  heavenly  face  !"  said 
Jacqueliua,  pctulently. 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  the  man  looks  as  if  the  Old  Nick  were 
in  him,  sure  enough  !" 

"  Well,  I  know  he  does  !  Looks  just  like  the  incarnated  old 
gentleman  !  But  /can't  help  it!  What  can  /do  ?  'Impos- 
sibilities are  not  duties.'  I  promised  to  worry  him  to  death  iu 
a  year  !  Well,  I  did  my  best !  Yet  here  he  is  still !  I  vow, 
how  tenacious  of  life  all  venomous  creatures  are!  Now,  that 
man's  demise  has  been  due  these  two  months,  and  the  debt  aint 
paid  yet  1  Never  mind — it  is  only  accumulating  interest !  that's 
all  !" 

"  Lapwing,  don't  talk  so  !  It  is  very  wicked,  child  !  Not 
that  I  think  you  mean  it,  of  course,  but  then  you  shouldn't  say 
it!  And  as  for  that  wretched  man,  I  am  truly  afraid  he  will 
do  something  desperate  !" 

"  I  just  wish  he'd  make  haste  and  do  it,  then.  What  do  you 
think  it  will  be  when  it's  done,  aunty  ?  Will  he  set  the  Chesa- 
peake on  Ore,  and  run  away  by  the  light  of  it  ?" 

"  Don't  trifle,  dear  Lapwing,  but  be  circumspect,  be  cau 
tious!" 

From  that  Sunday  to  the  following  Wednesday,  not  one 
word  was  spoken  of  Thurston  Willcoxen  or  his  lecture.  But 
on  Wednesday  morning,  Dr.  Grimshaw  entered  the  parlor, 
where  Jacquelina  lingered  alone,  gazing  out  of  the  window, 
and  going  up  to  her  side,  astonished  her  beyond  measure  by 
speaking  in  a  calm,  kind  tone,  and  saying, 

"  Jacqueliua,  you  have  been  too  much  confined  to  the  house 
lately.  You  are  languid.  You  must  go  out  more.  Mr.  Will- 
coxen lectures  this  evening.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear 
him.  If  so,  I  withdraw  my  former  prohibition,  which  was 
perhaps,  too  harsh,  and  I  beg  you  will  follow  your  own  incli- 
nations, if  they  lead  you  to  go." 

"You  should  have  seen  Jacko's  eyes  and  eye-brows!  the 
former  were  dilated  to  their  utmost  capacity,  while  the  latter 
were  elevated  to  their  highest  altitude.  The  professor's  eye« 


ONE      OF      SANS      SOUCl'S      TRICKS.        45 1 

brows  were  knotted  together,  and  his  eyes  sought  the  ground, 
as  he  continued, 

"  I  myself  have  an  engagement  at  Leonardtown  this  after- 
noon, which  will  detain  me  all  night,  and  therefore  shall  not  be 
able  to  escort  you;  but  Mrs.  Waugh,  who  is  going,  will  doubt- 
less take  you  under  her  charge.  Would  you  like  to  go  ?" 

"  I  had  already  intended  to  go,"  replied  Jacquelina,  without 
relaxing  a  muscle  of  her  face. 

The  Professor  nodded  and  left  the  room. 

Soon  after,  Jacquelina  sought  her  aunty,  whom  she  found  in 
the  pantry,  mixing  mince-meat. 

"  I  say,  aunty — " 

"Well,  Lapwing?" 

"  When  Satan  turns  saint,  suspicion  is  safe,  is  it  not?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lapwing?" 

"Why,  just  now  the  Professor  came  to  me,  politely  apolo- 
gized for  his  late  rudeness,  and  proposed  that  I  should  go  with 
you  to  hear  Mr.  Willcoxen's  lecture,  while  he,  the  Professor, 
goes  to  Leonardtown,  to  fulfill  an  engagement.  I  say,  aunty, 
I  sniff  a  plot,  don't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,  Lapwing.  Are  you 
going  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am ;  I  always  intended  to." 

No  more  was  said  at  the  time. 

Immediately  after  dinner,  Dr.  Grimshaw  ordered  his  horse, 
and  saying  that  he  was  going  to  Leonardtowu  and  should  not 
be  back  till  the  next  day,  set  forth. 

And  after  an  early  tea,  Mrs.  Waugh  and  Jacquelina  set  out 
in  the  family  sleigh.  A  swift  run  over  the  hard,  frozen  snow, 
brought  them  to  Old  Fields,  where  they  stopped  a  moment  to 
pick  up  Marian,  and  then  shooting  forward  at  the  same  rate 
of  speed,  they  reached  the  lecture-room  in  full  time. 

It  was  quite  crowded,  but  through  the  politeness  of  one  of 
the  professors,  the  three  ladies  were  conducted  up  the  length 
uf  the  room,  and  seated  upon  the  front  bench  that  had  been 
reserved  for  the  clergy — some  of  the  latter  giving  way  to 


458  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

accommodate  them.  The  young  lecturer  was  just  about  to 
commence  his  discourse.  I  will  not  weary  you  by  any  report 
of  it — but  merely  remark  that  as  usual,  he  completely  mag- 
netized the  superior  portion  of  his  audience,  and  that  at  all  the 
final  passages  of  his  oratory,  his  eyes  were  irresistibly  fasci- 
nated to  the  bench  where  sat  Mrs.  Waugh,  Marian,  and  Jac- 
quelina.  As  for  the  latter,  she  was  perhaps  the  very  least 
enchanted  of  all  his  hearers — she  was  in  fact  an  exception,  and 
found  the  discourse  so  entirely  uninteresting  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  she  could  refrain  from  yawning  in  the  face  of  the 
orator.  Mrs.  Waugh  also,  perhaps,  was  but  half  mesmerized, 
for  her  eyes  would  cautiously  wander  from  the  lecturer's  pulpit, 
to  the  side  window  on  her  right  hand.  At  length  she  stooped 
and  whispered  to  Jacquelina, 

"Child,  be  cautious;  Dr.  Grimshaw  is  on  the  ground — I 
have  seen  his  face  rise  up  to  that  lower  pane  of  glass  at  the 
corner  of  that  window,  several  times.  He  must  be  crouched 
down  on  the  outside." 

Jacquelina  gave  a  little  start  of  surprise — her  face  underwent 
many  phases  of  expression ;  she  glanced  furtively  at  the  indi- 
cated window,  and  there  she  saw  a  pale,  wild  face  gleam  for  an 
instant  against  the  glass,  and  then  drop.  She  nodded  her 
head  quickly — muttering, 

"Oh!  I'll  pay  him!" 

"Don't,  child!  don't  do  anything  imprudent,  for  gracious 
sake!  That  man  is  crazy — any  one  can  see  he  is!" 

"  Oh,  aunty,  I'll  be  sure  to  pay  him !  He  shan't  be  in  my 
debt  much  longer.  Soft,  aunty !  Don't  look  towards  the 
window  again  1  Don't  let  him  perceive  that  we  see  him  or 
suspect  him — and  then,  you'll  see  what  you'll  see.  I  have  a 
counter  plot." 

This  last  sentence  was  muttered  to  herself  by  Jacquelina, 
who  thereupon  straightened  herself  up — looked  the  lecturer  in 
the  eyes — and  gave  her  undevoted  attention  to  him  during  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  There  was  not  a  more  appreciating  and 
admiring  hearer  in  the  room,  than  Jacquelina  affected  to  be 


ONE   OE   SANS   SOUCl'S   TRICKS.   4-00 

Her  face  was  radiant,  her  eyes  starry,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
pretty  lips  glowing  breathlessly  apart — her  whole  form  instinct 
with  enthusiasm.  Any  one  might  have  thought  the  little  crea- 
ture bewitched.  But  the  fascinating  orator  need  not  have  flat- 
tered himself — had  he  but  known  it — Jacquelina  neither  saw 
his  face  nor  heard  his  words;  she  was  seeing  pictures  of  Grim's 
bitter  jealousy,  mortification  and  rage,  as  he  beheld  her  from 
his  covert;  she  was  rehearsing  scenes  of  what  she  meant  to  do 
to  him.  And  when  at  last  she  forgot  herself,  and  clapped  her 
hand  enthusiastically,  it  was  not  at  the  glorious  peroration  of 
the  orator — but  at  the  perfection  of  her  own  little  plot  I" 

When  the  lecturer  had  finished,  and  as  usual  announced  the 
subject  and  the  time  of  the  next  lecture,  Jacquelina,  instead  of 
rising  with  the  mass  of  the  audience,  showed  a  disposition  to 
retain  her  seat. 

"  Come,  my  dear,  I  am  going,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"  Wait,  auuty,  I  dou't  like  to  go  in  a  crowd." 

Mrs.  Waugh  waited  while  the  people  pressed  towards  the 
outer  doors. 

"  I  wonder  whether  the  Professor  will  wait  and  join  us  when 
we  return  home?"  said  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Jacquelina.  "  I  wish  he  may.  I  be- 
lieve he  will.  I  am  prepared  for  such  an  emergency." 

In  the  meantime,  Thurston  Willcoxen  had  descended  from 
the  platform,  and  was  shaking  hands  right  and  left  with  the 
few  people  who  had  lingered  to  speak  to  him.  Then  he  ap- 
proached Mrs.  Waugh's  party,  bowed,  and  afterwards  shook 
hands  with  each  member  of  it,  only  retaining  Marian's  hand 
the  fraction  of  a  minute  longest,  and  giving  it  an  earnest  pres- 
sure in  relinquishing  it.  Then  he  inquired  after  the  health  of 
the  family  at  Luckenough,  commented  upon  the  weather,  the 
state  of  the  crops,  etc.,  and  with  a  valedictory  bow  withdrew, 
aad  followed  the  retreating  crowd. 

"  I  think  we  can  also  go  now,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jacquelina,  rising. 

Upon  reaching  the  outside,  they  found  old  Oliver,  with  the 


46C  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

slci^A.  drawn  up  to  receive  them.  Jacquelina  looked  all 
around,  to  see  if  she  could  discover  Tlmrstou  Willcoxcn  on  the 
grounds ;  and  not  seeing  him  anywhere,  she  persuaded  herself 
that  he  must  have  hastened  home.  But  she  saw  Dr.  Grirashaw, 
recognised  him,  and  at  the  same  time  could  but  notice  the 
strong  resemblance  in  form  and  manner  that  he  bore  to  Thurs- 
ton  Willcoxen,  when  it  was  too  dark  to  notice  the  striking 
difference  in  complexion  and  expression.  Doctor  Grimshaw 
approached  her,  keeping  his  cloak  partially  lifted  to  his  face, 
as  if  to  defend  it  from  the  wind,  but  probably  to  conceal  it. 
Then  the  evil  spirit  entered  Jacquelina,  and  tempted  her  to 
sidle  cautiously  up  to  the  Professor,  slip  her  arm  through  his 
arm,  and  whisper, 

"  Thurston  !  Cornel  Jump  in  the  sleigh  and  go  home  with 
us.  We  shall  have  such  a  nice  time !  Old  Grim'  has  gone  to 
Leonardtown,  and  wont  be  home  till  to-morrow!" 

" Has  he,  minion!  By  St.  Judas!  you  are  discoverd  now! 
I  have  now  full  evidence  of  your  turpitude.  By  all  the  saints ! 
you  shall  answer  for  it  fearfully,"  said  the  Professor,  between 
his  clenched  teeth,  as  he  closed  his  arm  upon  Jacquelina's  arm, 
and  dragged  her  towards  the  sleigh. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  Oh!  well,  I  don't  care !  If  I  mistook  you 
for  Thurston,  it  is  not  the  first  mistake  I  ever  made  about  you  1 
I  mistook  you  once  before  for  a  man !"  said  Jacko,  defiantly. 

He  thrust  her  into  the  sleigh  already  occupied  by  Mrs. 
"VVaugh  and  Marian,  jumped  in  after  her,  and  took  the  seat  by 
her  side. 

"  Why,  I  thought  that  you  set  out  for  Leonardtown  this 
iifternoon,  Doctor  Grimshaw!"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  coldly. 

"  You  may  have  jumped  to  other  conclusions  equally  false 
and  dangerous,  madam  1" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"  I  mean,  madam,  that  in  conniving  at  the  perfidy  of  thia 
unprincipled  girl,  your  niece,  you  imagined  that  you  were  safe. 
It  was  an  error.  You  are  both  discovered  !"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, doggedly. 


ONE      OF      SANS      BOUCl'S      TRICKS.       461 

Henrietta  was  almost  enraged. 

"  Dr.  Grimshaw,"  she  said,  "  nothing  but  self-respect  pre- 
vents me  from  ordering  you  from  this  sleigh !" 

"  I  advise  you  to  let  self-respect,  or  any  other  motive  you 
please,  still  restrain  yon,  madam.  I  remain  here  as  the  warden 
of  this  pretty  creature's  person,  until  she  is  safely  secured." 

"You  will  at  least  be  kind  enough  to  explain  to  us  the  causes  of 
your  present  words  and  actions,  sir !"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  severely. 

"Undoubtedly,  madam!  Having,  as  I  judged,  just  reasons 
for  doubting  the  integrity  of  your  niece,  and  more  than  sus- 
pecting her  attachment  to  Mr.  Willcoxen,  I  was  determined 
to  test  both.  Therefore,  instead  of  going  to  Leonardtown,  to 
be  absent  till  to-morrow,  I  caine  here,  posted  myself  at  a  favor- 
able point  for  observation,  and  took  notes.  While  here,  I  saw 
enough  to  convince  me  of  Jacquelina's  indiscretions.  After- 
wards  leaving  the  spot  with  lacerated  feelings,  I  drew  near  her. 
She  mistook  me  for  her  lover,  thrust  her  arm  through  mine,  and 
said  '  Dear  Thurstori,  come  home  with  me — '  " 

"  Oh  !  you  shocking  old  fye-for-shame !  I  said  no  such  a 
thing  I  I  said,  '  Thurstou !  Come  !  Jump  in  the  sleigh  and  go 
home  with  MS.'  " 

"It  makes  little  difference,  madam!  The  meaning  was  the 
same.  I  will  not  be  responsible  for  a  literal  report.  You  are 
discovered." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  If  it  means  you  have  discovered 
that  I  mistook  you  for  Thurstou  Willcoxen,  you  ought  to  'walk 
on  thrones'  the  rest  of  your  life !  You  never  got  such  a  com- 
pliment before,  and  never  will  again!" 

"  Aye  !  go  on,  madam  !     You  and  your  conniving  aunt — " 

"  Doctor  Grimshaw,  if  you  dare  to  say  or  hint  such  imperti- 
nence to  me  again,  you  shall  leave  your  seat  much  more  quickly 
than  you  took  it,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"We  shall  see  madam!"  said  the  Professor,  and  he  lapsed 
into  sullenness  for  the  remainder  of  the  drive. 

But,  oh !  there  was  one  in  that  sleigh  upon  whose  heart  the 
words  of  wild  Jacko  had  fallen  with  cruel  weight — Marian  ! 
29 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

BANS      SOUCI'S      LAST      FUN. 

"  A  dream  is  on  my  soul, 

I  see  a  slumberer  crowned  with  flowers  and  smiling, 
As  in  delighted  visions,  on  the  brink 
Of  a  dread  chasm." — Hemans. 

WHEN  the  sulky  sleighing  party  reached  Luckenough,  they 
found  Commodore  Waugh  not  only  up  and  waiting,  but  in  the 
highest  state  of  self-satisfaction,  a  blessing  of  which  they  re- 
ceived their  full  share  of  benefit,  for  the  old  man,  in  the  over- 
flowing of  his  joy,  had  ordered  an  oyster-supper,  which  wa* 
now  all  ready  to  be  served  smoking  hot  to  the  chilled  and 
hungry  sleigh-riders. 

•*I  wonder  what's  out  now?"  said  Jacquelina,  as  she  threw 
off  her  wrappings,  scattering  them  heedlessly  on  the  chairs  and 
floor  of  the  hall.  "  Some  awful  calamity  has  overtaken  some 
of  Uncle  Nick's  enemies.  Nothing  on  earth  but  that  ever  puts 
him  into  such  a  jolly  humor.  Now  we'll  see !  I  wonder  if  it 
is  a  'crowner's  'quest'  case  ?  Wish  it  was  Grim'." 

Mis.  Henrietta  blessed  her  stars  for  the  good  weather, 
without  inquiring  very  closely  where  it  came  from,  as  she  con- 
ducted Marian  to  a  bed-room  to  lay  off  her  bonnet  and  mantle. 

It  was  only  at  the  foot  of  his  own  table,  after  ladling  out  and 
serving  around  the  stewed  oysters  "  hot  and  hot,"  that  the  Com- 
modore, rubbing  his  hands,  and  smiling  until  his  great  face  was 
as  grotesque  as  a  nutcracker's,  announced  that  Miss  Nancy 
Skamp  was  turned  out  of  office — yea,  discrowned,  unsceptred, 
dethroned,  and  that  Harry  Barnwell  reigned  in  her  stead  !  The 
news  had  come  in  that  evening's  mail !  All  present  breathed 
more  freely — all  felt  an  inexpressible  relief  in  knowing  that  the 
post-office  would  henceforth  be  above  suspicion,  and  their  let- 
lers  and  papers  safe  from  desecration.  Only  Marian  said, 
(462) 


SANS      BODCl's      LAST      FUN.  463 

"  "What  will  become  of  the  poor  old  creature  ?" 

"By  St.  Judas  Iscariot,  that's  her  business.7' 

"  Xo,  indeed,  I  think  it  is  ours ;  some  provision  should  be 
made  for  her,  Commodore  Waugh." 

"  I'll  recommend  her  to  the  trustees  of  the  almshouse,  Miss 
May  field." 

Marian  thought  it  best  not  to  pursue  the  subject  then,  but 
resolved  to  embrace  the  first  opportunity  of  appealing  to  the 
Commodore's  smothered  chivalry  in  behalf  of  a  woman,  old, 
poor,  feeole,  and  friendless. 

During  the  supper  Doctor  Grimshaw  sat  up  as  stiff  and 
soleinn — Jacquelina  said — "as  if  he'd  swallowed  the  poker  and 
couldn't  digest  it."  When  they  rose  from  the  table,  and  were 
about  leaving  the  dining-room,  Dr.  Grimshaw  glided  in  a  fune- 
real manner  to  the  side  of  the  Commodore,  and  demanded  a 
private  interview  with  him. 

"  Xot  to-night,  Nace!  Not  to-night!  I  know  by  your 
looks  what  it  is !  It  is  some  new  deviltry  of  Jacquelina's.  That 
can  wait !  I'm  as  sleepy  as  a  whole  cargo  of  opium !  I  would 
not  stop  to  talk  now  to  Paul  Jones,  if  he  was  to  rise  from  the 
dead  and  visit  me  1" 

And  the  Professor  had  to  be  content  with  that,  for  almost  im- 
mediately the  family  separated  for  the  night. 

Marian,  attended  by  the  maid  Maria,  sought  the  chamber 
assigned  to  herself.  When  she  had  changed  her  tight-fitting 
day-dress  for  a  wrapper,  she  dismissed  the  girl,  locked  the  door 
behind  her,  and  then  drew  her  chair  up  before  the  little  fire,  and 
fell  into  deep  thought.  Many  causes  of  anxiety  pressed  heavily 
upon  Marian.  That  T/turston  had  repented  his  hasty  marriayc 
with  herself  she  had  every  reason  to  believe. 

She  had  confidently  hoped  that  her  explanation  with  Thurs- 
ton  would  have  resulted  in  good — but,  alas!  it  seemed  to  have 
had  little  effect.  His  attentions  to  Miss  Le  Roy  wore  still  un- 
remitted — the  young  lady's  partiality  was  too  evident  to  all — 
and  people  already  reported  them  to  be  engaged. 

And  now,  as  Marian  sat  by  her  little  wood-fire  in  her  chain. 


464  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ber  at  Luck  enough,  bitter,  sorrowful  questions,  arose  in  her 
mind.  Would  he  persist  in  his  present  course  ?  No,  no,  it 
could  not  be !  This  was  probably  done  only  to  pique  herself;  but 
then  it  was  carried  too  far;  it  was  ruining  the  peace  of  a  good, 
confiding  girl.  And  Jacquelina — she  had  evidently  mistaken 
Dr.  Grimshaw  for  Thurston,  and  addressed  to  him  words  arguing 
a  familiarity  very  improper,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  Could  he 
be  trifling  with  poor  Jacquelina  too  ?  Jacko's  words  when  be- 
lieving herself  addressing  Thurston,  certainly  denoted  some 
such  "foregone  conclusion."  Marian  resolved  to  see  Thurston 
once  more — once  more  to  expostulate  with  him,  if  happily  it 
might  have  some  good  effect.  And  having  formed  this  reso- 
lution, she  knelt  and  offered  up  her  evening  prayers,  and  retired 
to  bed. 

The  next  day  being  Holy  Thursday,  there  was,  by  order  of 
the  trustees,  a  holiday  at  Miss  Mayfield's  school.  And  so 
Marian  arose  with  the  prospect  of  spending  the  day  with 
Jacquelina.  When  she  descended  to  the  breakfast-room,  what 
was  her  surprise  to  find  Thurston  Willcoxen,  at  that  early 
hour,  the  sole  occupant  of  the  room.  He  wore  a  green  shoot- 
ing jacket,  belted  around  his  waist.  He  stood  upon  the  hearth, 
with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  gun  leaned  against  the  corner  of 
the  mantle-piece,  and  his  game-bag  dropped  at  his  feet.  Marian's 
neart  bounded,  and  her  cheek  and  eye  kindled  when  she.  saw 
him,  and,  for  the  instant,  all  her  doubts  vanished — she  could 
not  believe  that  guilt  lurked  behind  a  countenance  so  frank, 
noble  and  calm  as  his.  He  stepped  forward  to  meet  her, 
extending  his  hand.  She  placed  her  own  in  it,  saying, 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  this  morning,  dear  Thurston,  for 
1  have  something  to  say  to  you  which  I  hope  you  will  lake 
kindly  from  your  Marian,  who  has  no  dearer  interest  in  the 
world  than  your  welfare." 

"  Marian,  if  it  is  anything  relating  to  our  old  subject  of  dis- 
pute— Miss  Le  Roy — let  me  warn  you  that  I  will  hear  nothing 
about  it." 

"  Thurston,  the  subjects  of  a  neighborhood's  gossip  are  always 


SANS      SOUCI'S      LAST      FUN.  4G5 

tlit  rery  last  to  hear  it !  You  do  not,  perhaps,  know  that  it 
is  commonly  reported  that  you  and  Miss  Le  Roy  are  engaged 
to  be  married!" 

"And  you  give  a  ready  ear  and  ready  belief  to  such  injurious 
slanders !" 

"  Xo  !  Heaven  knows  that  I  do  not!  I  will  not  say  that  my 
heart  has  not  been  tortured — fully  as  ranch  as  your  own  would 
have  been,  dear  Thurston,  had  the  case  been  reversed,  and  had 
/stooped  to  receive  from  another  such  attentions  as  you  have 
bestowed  upon  Miss  Le  Roy.  But,  upon  calm  reflection,  I 
fully  believe  that  you  could  never  give  that  young  lady  my 
place  in  your  heart,  that  having  known  and  loved  me — " 

Marian  paused,  but  the  soul  rose  like  a  day-star  behind  her 
beautiful  face,  lighting  serenely  under  her  white  eyelids,  glow- 
ing softly  on  the  parted  lips  and  blooming  cheeks. 

"Aye!  'having  known  and  loved  me!'  There  again  spoke 
the  very  enthusiasm  of  self-worship !  But  how  know  you, 
Marian,  that  I  do  not  find  such  regnant  superiority  wearisome  ? 
— that  I  do  not  find  it  refreshing  to  sit  down  quietly  beside  a 
lower,  humbler  nature,  whose  greatest  faculty  is  to  love,  whose 
greatest  need  to  be  loved!" 

"  How  do  I  know  it  ?  By  knowing  that  higher  nature  of 
yours,  which  you  now  ignore.  Yet  it  is  not  of  myself  that  I 
wish  to  speak,  but  of  her.  Thurston,  you  pursue  that  girl  for 
mere  pastime,  I  am  sure — with  no  ulterior  evil  purpose,  I  am 
certain;  yet,  Thurston!"  she  said,  involuntarily  pressing  her 
hand  tightly  upon  her  own  bosom,  "  I  know  how  a  woman  may 
love  you,  and  that  may  be  death  or  madness  to  Angelica,  which 
is  only  whim  and  amusement  to  you.  And,  Thurston,  you 
must  go  no  further  with  this  culpable  trifling — you  must  pro- 
mise me  to  see  her  no  more !" 

"  'Mast!1  Upon  my  soul!  you  take  state  upon  yourself,  fair 
queen !" 

"  Thurston,  a  higher  authority  than  mine  speaks  by  my  lips 
— it  is  the  voice  of  Right  1  You  will  regard  it  1  You  will  gn  e 
me  that  promise!" 


466  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  And  if  I  do  not—" 

"  Oh !  there  is  no  time  to  argue  with  you  longer — some  one  ,a 
coming — I  must  be  quick.  It  is  two  weeks,  Thurston,  since  I 
first  urged  this  upon  you  ;  I  have  hesitated  already  too  long, 
and  now  I  tell  you,  though  my  heart  bleeds  to  say  it,  that  unless 
you  promise  to  see  Angelica  no  more,  /will  see  and  have  an 
explanation  with  her  to-morrow!" 

"You  will!" 

"You  can  prevent  it,  dearest  Thurston,  by  yourself  doing 
what  you  know  to  be  right." 

"And  if  I  do  not?" 

"  I  will  see  Miss  Le  Roy,  to-morrow !" 

"  By  Heaven,  then — " 

His  words  were  suddenly  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs. 
Waugh.  In  an  instant  his  countenance  changed,  and  taking  up 
his  bag  of  game,  he  went  to  meet  the  smiling  good  humored 
woman,  saying  with  a  gay  laugh, 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Waugh!  You  see  I  have  been  shoot- 
ing in  the  woods  of  Luckenough,  this  morning,  and  I  could  not 
leave  the  premises  without  offering  this  tribute  to  their  honored 
mistress." 

And  Thurston  gaily  laid  the  trophy  at  her  feet. 

"Hebe !  will  you  please  to  see  that  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  is  sent 
up  to  Mrs.  L'Oiseau ;  she  is  unwell  this  morning,  as  I  knew  she 
would  be,  from  her  excitement  last  night ;  or  go  with  it  your- 
self, Hebe !  The  presence  of  the  goddess  of  health  at  her  bed- 
side is  surely  needed." 

Marian  left  the  room,  and  then  Mrs.  Waugh,  turning  to  the 
young  gentleman,  said, 

"  Thurston,  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  you,  for  I  have  something  very  particular  to  say,  which  you 
must  hear  without  taking  offence  at  your  old  aunty !" 

"Humph!  I  am  in  for  petticoat  discipline  this  nnrning, 
beyond  a  doubt,"  thought  the  young  man ;  but  he  only  bowed, 
and  placed  a  chair  for  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"I  shall  speak  very  plainly,  Thurston." 


SANS      SOUCl'S      LAST      FUN.  467 

"  Oh  !  by  all  means !  As  plainly  as  you  please.  Mrs.  Waugh," 
jairl  Thurston,  with  an  odd  grimace;  "  I  an:  growing  accustomed 
to  have  ladies  speak  very  plainly  to  me." 

"  Well !  it  wont  do  you  any  harm,  Thurston.  And  now  to 
the  point !  I  told  you  before,  that  you  must  not  show  any 
civility  to  Jacquelina.  And  now  I  repeat  it !  And  I  warn 
you,  that  if  you  do,  you  will  cause  some  frightful  misfortune 
that  you  will  have  to  repent  all  the  days  of  your  life — if  it  be 
not  fatal  first  of  all  to  yourself.  I  do  assure  you  that  old  Grim- 
shaw  is  mad  with  jealousy.  He  can  no  longer  be  held  respon- 
sible for  his  actions.  And  in  short,  you  must  see  Jacquelina 
no  more !" 

"  \Vhe-ew!  a  second  time  this  morning!  Come!  I'm  getting 
up  quite  the  reputation  of  a  lady-killer!"  thought  the  young 
ma.n.  Then  with  a  light  laugh,  he  looked  up  to  Mrs.  Waugh, 
and  said, 

"  My  dear  madam,  do  you  take  me  for  a  man  who  would 
willingly  disturb  the  peace  or  honor  of  a  family  ?" 

"Pshaw!  By  no  means,  my  dear  Thurston.  Of  course  I 
know  it's  all  the  most  ridiculous  nonsense!  But  what  then? 
What  does  Shakspeare  say? 

«  ;  Jealous  Bouls  will  not  be  answered  so, 
They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  a  cause, 
But  jealous  for  they  are  jealous.'  " 

"Well !    By  the  patience  of  Job,  I  do  think — " 

Again  Thurston's  words  were  suddenly  cut  short,  by  the  en- 
trance of — the  Commodore,  who  planted  his  cane  down  with  his 
usual  emphatic  force  and  said, 

"Oh,  sir!  You  here !  I  am  very  glad  of  it !  There  is  a  little 
matter  to  be  discussed  between  you  and  me !  Old  Hen !  leave  us  1 
vanish  !  evaporate." 

Henrietta  was  well  pleased  to  do  so.  And  as  she  closed  the 
door,  the  Commodore  turned  to  Thurston,  and  with  another 
emphatic  thump  of  his  cane,  said, 

"  Well,  sir !  a  small  craft  is  soon  rigged,  and  a  short  speech 


468  THE      MISSING      ERIDE. 

soon  made.  la  two  words,  ho\v  dare  you,  sir  !  make  love  to 
Jacquelina  ?" 

"  My  dear  uncle — " 

"By  Xeptune,  sir;  don't  'uncle'  me.  I  ask  you  how  you 
daral  to  make  love  to  my  niece  ?" 

"  Sir,  you  mistake,  she  made  love  to  me." 

"You  impudent,  impertinent,  unprincipled  jackanape." 

"Come,"  said  Thurston  to  himself,  "I  have  got  into  a 
hornet's  nest  this  morning." 

"  I  shall  take  very  good  care,  sir,  to  have  Major  Le  Roy 
informed  what  sort  of  a  gentleman  it  is  who  is  paying  his 
addresses  to  his  daughter." 

"  Miss  Le  Roy  will  be  likely  to  form  a  high  opinion  of  me 
before  the  week  is  out,"  said  Thurston,  laughing. 

"You — you — you  graceless  villain,  you,"  cried  the  Commo- 
dore in  a  rage — "  to  think  that  I  had  such  confidence  in  you, 
sir;  defended  you  upon  all  occasions,  sir;  refused  to  believe 
in  your  villany,  sir;  refused  to  close  my  doors  against  yon,  sir. 
Yes,  sir ;  and  should  have  continued  to  do  so,  but  for  last  night's 
affair." 

"  Last  night's  affair !  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not  in  the  least  un- 
derstand you  ?" 

"  Oh  !  you  don't.  You  don't  understand  that  after  the  lec- 
ture last  evening,  in  leaving  the  place,  Jacquelina  thrust  her 
arm  through  yours — no  ;  I  mean  through  Grim's,  mistaking 
him  for  you,  and  said — what  she  never  would  have  said,  had 
there  not  been  an  understanding  between  you." 

Thurston's  face  was  now  the  picture  of  astonishment  and 
perplexity.  The  Commodore  seemed  to  mistake  it  for  a  look 
of  consternation  and  detected  guilt,  for  he  continued  : 

"And  now,  sir,  I  suppose  you  understand  what  is  to  follow. 
Do  you  see  that  door  ?  It  leads  straight  into  the  hall,  which 
leads  directly  through  the  front  portal  out  into  the  lawn,  and 
on  to  the  highway — that  is  your  road,  sir.  Good  morning.  ' 

And  the  Commodore  thumped  down  his  stick  and  left  the 
room — the  image  of  righteous  indignation. 


SANS      SOUCI'S      LAST      FUN.  4(3'.) 

Thurslon  nodded — smiled  slightly,  drew  his  tablets  from  hi* 
pocket,  tore  a  leaf  out,  took  his  pencil,  laid  the  paper  upon  the 
corner  of  the  mantle-piece,  wrote  a  few  lines,  folded  the  note, 
and  concealed  it  in  his  hand  as  the  door  opened,  and  admitted 
Mrs.  Waugh,  Marian  and  Jacquelina.  There  was  a  telegraphic 
glance  between  the  elder  lady  and  the  young  man. 

That  of  Mrs.  Waugh  said  : — 

"  Do  have  pity  on  the  fools,  and  go,  Thurston." 

That  of  Thurston,  said  : — 

"  I  am  going,  Mrs.  Wangh,  and  without  laughing,  if  I  can 
help  it." 

Then  he  picked  up  his  shooting  cap,  bowed  to  Jacquelina, 
shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Waugh,  and  pressing  Marian's  palm, 
left  within  it  the  note  that  he  had  written,  took  up  his  game  bag 
and  gun,  and  departed. 


"The  inconceivable  idiots!"  said  Thurston,  as  he  strode  on 
through  the  park  of  Luckenough,  "  to  fancy  that  any  one  with 
eyes,  heart  and  brain,  could  possibly  fall  in  love  with  the 
'  Will-o'-the-wisp'  Jacquelina,  or  worse,  that  giglet,  Angelica; 
when  he  sees  Marian  !  Marian,  whose  least  sunny  tress  is  dearer 
to  me,  than  are  all  the  living  creatures  in  the  world  besides. 
Marian,  for  whose  possession  I  am  now  about  to  risk  every- 
thing, even  her  own  esteem.  Yet,  she  will  forgive  me  ;  I  will 
earn  her  forgiveness  by  such  devoted  love." 

He  hurried  on  until  he  reached  an  outer  gate,  through  which 
old  Oliver  was  driving  a  cart  loaded  with  wood.  As  if  to  dis- 
encumber himself,  he  threw  his  game  bag  and  valuable  fowling 
piece  to  the  old  man,  saying  : — 

''There,  uncle;  there's  a  present  for  you,"  and  without 
waiting  to  hear  his  thanks,  hurried  on,  leaping  hedges  and 
ditches,  until  he  came  to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  his  horse 
tied  since  the  morning.  Throwing  himself  into  his  saddle,  ho 
put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  galloped  away  towards  the  village, 
uor  drew  rein  until  he  reached  a  little  tavern  on  the  water  side. 
lie  threw  his  bridle  to  an  hostler  in  waiting,  and  hurrying  in, 


470  THE      MISSING       BRIDE. 

demanded  to  be  shown  into  a  private  room.  The  little 
parlor  was  placed  at  his  disposal.  Here,  for  form's  sake,  he 
called  for  the  newspaper,  cigars,  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  (none 
of  which  he  discussed  however,)  dismissed  the  attendant,  and  sal 
waiting. 

Presently  the  avant-courier  of  mingled  fumes  of  tar,  bilge 
water,  tobacco  and  rum,  warned  him  that  his  expected  visitor 
was  approacning.  And  an  instant  after  the  door  was  opened, 
and  a  short,  stout,  dark  man  in  a  weather-proof  jacket,  duck 
trowsers,  cow-hide  shoes,  and  tarpaulin  hat  entered. 

"Well,  Miles,  I've  been  waiting  for  you  here  more  than  an 
hour,"  said  Thurston,  impatiently. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir — all  right.  I've  been  cruising  round,  recon- 
noitering  the  enemy's  coast,"  replied  the  man,  removing  the 
quid  of  tobacco  from  his  mouth,  and  reluctantly  casting  it  into 
the  fire. 

"You  are  sure  you  know  the  spot?" 

"Aye,  aye,  sir — the  beach  just  below  Old  Fields  farmhouse." 

"And  south  of  the  Pine  Bluff." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir!  I  know  the  port — that  aint  the  head  wind  !" 
said  Jack  Miles,  pushing  up  the  side  of  his  hat,  and  scratching 
his  head  with  a  look  of  doubt  and  hesitation. 

"What  is,  then,  you  blockhead?"  asked  Thurston,  impa- 
tiently ;  "  is  your  hire  insufficient  ?" 

"  N-n-n — yes — I  dunno  1  You  see,  Cap'n,  if  I  wer'  cock 
sure,  as  that  'ere  little  craft  you  want  carried  off  wer'  yourn." 

"Hush  !  don't  talk  so  loud.  You're  not  at  sea  in  a  gale, 
you  fool.  Well,  go  on.  Speak  quickly  and  speak  lower." 

"I  wer'  gwine  to  say,  if  so  be  I  wer'  sure  you  wer'  the  csip'n 
of  her,  why  then  it  would  be  plain  sailing,  with  no  fog  around, 
and  no  breakers  ahead." 

"Well!  lam,  you  fool.     She  is  mine — my  wife." 

"Well,  but,  Cap'n,"  said  the  speaker,  still  hesitating,  "if 
FO  be  that's  the  case,  why  don't  she  strike  her  colors  to  iier 
rightful  owner  ?  Why  don't,  you  take  command  in  open  day- 
light, with  the  drums  a  beating,  and  the  flags  a  flving  ?  What 


SAA'S      SOUCl'S      LAST      FUN.  471 

must  you  board  her  like  a  pirate  in  this  a  way  fur  ?  I've  been 
a  thinkin'  on  it,  and  I  think  it's  dangerous  steering  along  this 
coast.  You  see  it's  all  in  a  fog ;  I  can't  make  out  the  land 
nowhere,  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  on  the  rocks  afore  I  knows 
it.  You  see  Cap'n,  I  never  wer'  in  such  a  thick  mist  since  I 
first  went,  to  sea.  No  offence  to  you,  Cap'n  !" 

"Oh,  none  in  the  world!  No  skillful  pilot  will  risk  his 
vessel  in  a  fog.  But  I  have  a  certain  golden  telescope  of  magic 
powers.  It  enables  you  to  see  clearly  through  the  thickest 
mist,  the  darkest  night  that  ever  fell.  I  will  give  it  to  you. 
In  other  words,  I  promised  you  five  hundred  dollars  for  this 
job.  Come,  accomplish  it  to-night,  and  you  shall  have  a  thou- 
sand. Is  the  mist  lifting  ?" 

"  I  think  it  is,  Cap'n  !     I  begin  to  see  land." 

"Very  well!  now,  is  your  memory  as  good  as  your  sight. 
Do  you  recollect  the  plan  ?" 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir." 

"Just  let  me  hear  you  go  over  it." 

"  I'm  to  bring  the  vessel  round,  and  lay  to  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  o'  the  coast.  At  dusk  I'm  to  put  off  in  a  skiff  and 
vow  to  Pine  Bluff,  and  lay  under  its  shadow  till  I  hear  your 
signal.  Then  I'm  tc  put  in  to  shore  and  take  in  the — the — " 

"The  cargo." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,  the  cargo." 

Leaving  the  two  conspirators  to  improve  and  perfect  their 
plot,  we  must  return  to  the  breakfast  parlor  at  Luckenough. 
The  family  were  assembled  around  the  table.  Doctor  Grim- 
shaw's  dark,  sombre,  and  lowering  looks,  enough  to  have  spread 
a  gloom  over  any  circle,  effectually  banished  cheerfulness  from 
the  board.  Marian  had  nad  no  opportunity  of  reading  her 
note — she  had  slipped  it  into  her  pocket.  But  as  soon  as 
breakfast  was  ovei,  amid  the  bustle  of  rising  from  the  table,  Ma- 
rian withdrew  to  a  window  and  glanced  over  the  lines. 

"  My  own  dearest  one,  forgive  my  haste  this  morning.  I  re- 
gret the  necessity  of  leaving  so  abruptly.  I  earnestly  implore 
you  to  see  me  once  more — upon  the  beach,  near  the  Pine  Bluffs, 


472  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

this  evening  at  dusk.  I  have  something  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance to  say  to  you." 

She  hastily  crumpled  the  note,  and  thrust  it  into  her  pocket, 
just  as  Jacquelina's  quizzical  face  looked  over  her  shoulder. 

"  You're  going  to  stay  all  day  with  me,  Marian  ?" 

"Yes,  love — that  is,  till  after  dinner.  Then  I  shall  have  to 
beg  of  Mrs.  Waugh  the  use  of  the  carriage  to  go  home." 

"Well,  then,  /will  ride  with  you,  Marian,  and  return  in  the 
carriage." 

All  the  company,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Waugh,  Marian, 
and  Jacquelina,  had  left  the  breakfast-room. 

Mrs.  Waugh  was  locking  her  china  closet,  and  when  she 
had  done,  she  took  her  bunch  of  keys,  and  turning  to  Marian, 
said, 

"  Hebe,  dear,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  and  see  poor  old 
Cracked  Nell.  She  is  staying  in  one  of  our  quarters.  I  think 
she  has  not  long  to  live,  and  I  want  you  to  talk  to  her." 

"Now?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  am  going  to  carry  her  some  breakfast.  So, 
come  along,  and  get  your  mantle,"  said  the  good  woman,  pass- 
ing out  through  the  door. 

Marian  followed,  drawing  out  her  pocket  handkerchief  to  tie 
over  her  head  ;  and  as  she  did  so,  the  note,  unperceived  by  her, 
fluttered  out,  and  fell  upon  the  carpet. 

Jacquelina  impulsively  darted  upon  it,  picked  it  up,  opened, 
and  read  it.  Had  Jacquelina  first  paused  to  reflect,  she  would 
never  have  done  so.  But  when  did  the  elf  ever  stop  to  think  ? 
As  she  read,  her  eyes  began  to  twinkle,  and  her  feet  to  patter 
up  and  down,  and  her  head  to  sway  from  side  to  side,  as  if  she 
could  scarcely  keep  from  singing  and  dancing  for  glee. 

"Well,  now,  who'd  a  thought  it!  Thurston  making  love  to 
Marian!  And  keeping  the  courtship  close,  too,  for  fear  of  the 
old  miser.  Lord!  but  look  herel  This  was  not  right  of  me? 
Am  I  a  pocket  edition  of  Miss  Nancy  Skamp  ?  Forbid  it,  Titan  ia, 
Queen  of  the  Fairies !  But  I  didn't  steal  it — I  found  it!  And 
1  must,  oh !  I  must  plague  Griin'  a  little  with  this  1  Forgive  me, 


SANS      SOUCl'S      LAST      FUN.  473 

Marian,  but  for  the  life  and  soul  of  me,  I  can't  help  keeping 
this  to  plague  Grim'  1  You  see,  I  promised  to  pay  him  when  he 
charged  me  with  swallowing  an  assignation,  and  now  if  I  don't 
pay  him,  if  I  don't  make  him  perspire  till  he  faints,  my  name 
is  not  Mrs.  Professor  Grimshaw!  Let's  see!  What  shall  I 
do !  Oh !  Why,  can't  I  pretend  to  lose  it,  just  as  Marian  lost 
it,  and  drop  it  where  he'll  find  it?  I  have  it!  Eureka!"  soli- 
loquised the  dancing  elf,  as  she  placed  her  handkerchief  in  the 
bottom  of  her  pocket,  and  the  note  on  top  of  it,  and  passed  on 
to  the  drawing-room  to  "bide  her  time." 

That  soon  came.  She  found  the  Professor  and  the  Commo- 
dore standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  in  an  earnest  conver- 
sation, which,  however,  seemed  near  its  close,  for  as  she  took 
her  seat,  the  Commodore  said, 

"  Very  well— I'll  attend  to  it,  Nace,"  and  clapped  his  hat 
upon  his  head,  and  went  out,  while  the  Professor  dropped  him- 
self into  a  chair,  and  took  up  a  book. 

"  Oh,  stop,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute,  uncle,"  cried 
Jacquelina,  starting  up  and  flying  after  him,  and  as  she  flew, 
pulling  out  her  handkerchief  and  letting  the  note  drop  upon 
the  floor.  A  swift,  sly,  backward  glance  showed  her  that 
Grim'  had  pounced  upon  it  like  a  panther  on  its  prey. 

"What  in  the  d — 1's  name  are  you  running  after  me  for?' 
burst  forth  the  old  man  as  Jacko  overtook  him. 

"Why,  uncle,  I  want  to  know  if  you'll  please  to  give  orders 
in  the  stable  to  have  the  carriage  wheels  washed  off  nicely  ? 
They  neglect  it.  And  I  and  Marian  want  to  use  it  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Go  to  the  deuce  !     Is  that  my  business  ?" 

Jacquelina  laughed,  and,  quivering  through  every  fibre  of 
her  frame  with  mischief,  went  back  into  the  drawing-room  tc 
Bee  the  state  of  Grim'. 

To  Jacquelina's  surprise  she  found  the  note  lying  upon  the 

same  spot  where  she  had  dropped  it.     Doctor  Grimshaw  was 

standing  with  his  back  towards  her,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

She  could  not  see  the  expression  of  his  countenance.     Sho 

39* 


474  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

stooped  and  picked  up  the  note,  but  had  scarcely  replaced  it  in 
her  pocket  before  Doctor  Grirashaw  abruptly  turned,  walked 
up  and  stood  before  her  and  looked  in  her  face.  Jacquelina 
could  scarcely  suppress  a  scream — it  was  as  if  a  ghost  had  come 
before  her,  so  blanched  was  his  color,  so  ghastly  his  features. 
An  instant  he  gazed  in  her  eyes,  and  then  passed  out  and  went 
un  stairs.  Jacquelina  turned  slowly  around,  looking  after  him 
like  one  magnetized.  Then  recovering  herself,  with  a  deep 
breath  she  said, 

"  Now  I  ask  of  all  the  'powers  that  be'  generally,  what's  the 
meaning  of  that  ?  He  picked  up  the  note  and  he  read  it,  that's 
certain  1  and  he  dropped  it  there  again  to  make  me  believe  he 
had  never  seen  it,  that's  certain,  too  !  I  wonder  what  he  means 
to  do!  There'll  be  fun  of  some  sort,  anyway!  Stop!  here 
comes  Marian  from  the  quarters!  I  shouldn't  wonder  if '  she 
has  missed  her  note,  and  hurried  back  in  search  of  it !  Come ! 
I'll  take  a  hint  from  Grim',  and  drop  it  where  I  found  it,  and 
say  nothing!" 

And  so  soliloquizing,  the  fairy  glided  back  into  the  breakfast- 
room,  let  the  note  fall,  and  turned  away  just  in  time  to  allow 
Marian  to  enter,  glance  around,  and  pick  up  her  lost  treasure. 
Then  joining  Marian,  she  invited  her  up  stairs  to  look  at  some 
new  finery  just  come  from  the  city. 

The  forenoon  passed  heavily  at  Luckenough.  When  the 
dinner  hour  approached,  and  the  family  collected  in  the  dining- 
room,  Doctor  Grimshaw  was  missing;  and  when  a  messenger 
was  sent  to  call  him  to  dinner,  an  answer  was  returned  that  the 
Professor  was  unwell,  and  preferred  to  keep  his  room. 

Jacquelina  was  quivering  between  fun  and  fear — vague,  un- 
accountable  fear,  that  hung  over  her  like  a  cloud,  darkening 
her  bright  frolic  spirit  with  a  woful  presentiment. 

After  dinner  Marian  asked  for  the  carriage,  and  Mrs. 
Waugh  gave  orders  that  it  should  be  brought  round  for  her 
use.  Jacquelina  prepared  to  accompany  Marian  home,  and  in 
an  honr  they  were  ready,  and  set  forth. 

"You  may  tell  Grim',  if  he  asks  after  me,  that  I  am  gone 


SANS      SOUCl's      LAST      FUN.  475 

home  with  Marian  to  Old  Fields,  and  that  I  am  not  certain 
whether  I  shall  return  to-night  or  not,"  said  Jacquelina,  as  sho 
took  leave  of  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"My  dear  Lapwing,  if  you  love  your  old  aunty,  come  im- 
mediately back  in  the  carriage.  And,  by-the-way,  my  dear,  I 
wish  that  you  would,  either  in  going  or  coming,  take  the  post- 
office,  and  get  the  letters  and  papers,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh. 

"  Let  it  be  in  going,  then,  Mrs.  Waugh,  for  I  have  not  been 
to  the  post-office  for  two  days,  and  there  may  be  something 
there  for  us  also,"  said  Marian. 

"Very  well,  bright  Hebe  !  as  you  please,  of  course,"  replied 
good  Henrietta. 

And  so  they  parted.  Did  either  dream  how  many  suns 
would  rise  and  set — how  many  seasons  come  and  go — how  many 
years  roll  by,  before  they  two  should  meet  again  ? 

The  carriage  was  driven  rapidly  on  to  the  village,  and  drawn 
up  at  the  post-office.  Old  Oliver  jumped  down,  and  went  in 
to  make  the  necessary  inquiries.  They  waited  impatiently  until 
he  reappeared,  bringing  one  large  letter.  There  was  nothing  for 
Luckenough. 

The  great  double  letter  was  for  Marian.  She  took  it,  and  as 
the  carriage  was  started  again,  and  drawn  towards  Old  Fields, 
she  examined  the  post-mark  and  superscription.  It  was  a  for- 
eign letter,  mailed  from  London,  and  superscribed  in  the  hand- 
writing of  her  oldest  living  friend,  the  pastor  who  had  attended 
her  brother  in  his  prison  and  at  the  scene  of  his  death. 

Marian  with  tearful  eyes  and  eager  hands,  broke  the  seal  and 
read,  while  Jacquelina  watched  her.  For  more  than  half  an 
houi  Jacko  watched  her,  and  then  impatience  overcame  discre- 
tion in  the  bosom  of  the  fairy,  and  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 

"Well,  Marian  !  I  do  wonder  what  can  ail  you?  You  grow 
pale,  and  then  you  grow  red,  your  bosom  heaves,  the  tears  come 
in  your  eyes,  you  clasp  your  hands  tightly  together  as  in  prayer 
— then  you  smile  and  raise  your  eyes  as  in  thanksgiving !  Now 
I  do  wonder  what  it  all  means  ?" 

"  It  means,  dear  Jacquelina,  that  I  am  the  most  grateful 


476  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

creature  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  jnst  now  ;  and  to-morrow, 
I  will  tell  you  why  I  am  so!"  said  Marian,  with  a  rosy  smile. 
And  well  she  might  be  most  grateful  and  most  happy,  for  that 
letter  had  brought  her  assurance  of  fortune  beyond  her  greatest 
desires.  On  reading  the  news,  her  very  first  thought  had  been 
of  Thurston.  Now  the  great  objection  of  the  miser  to  their 
marriage  would  be  removed — the  great  obstacle  to  their  imme- 
diate union  overcome.  Thurston  would  be  delivered  from  tempta- 
tion ;  she  would  be  saved  anxiety  and  suspense.  "  Yes  !  I  will 
meet  him  this  evening — I  cannot  keep  this  blessed  news  from 
him  a  day  longer  than  necessary  ;  for  this  fortune  tiiat  has  come 
to  me,  will  all  be  his  own  !  Oh  !  how  rejoiced  I  am,  to  be  the 
means  of  enriching  him  ;  how  much  good  we  can  both  do  ?" 

These  were  the  tumultuous,  generous  thoughts  that  sent  the 
flush  to  Marian's  cheeks,  the  smiles  to  her  lips,  and  the  tears  to 
her  eyes — that  caused  those  white  fingers  to  clasp,  and  those 
clear  eyes  to  rise  to  Heaven  in  thankfulness,  as  she  folded  up 
her  treasured  letter  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom. 

An  hour's  ride  brought  them  to  Old  Field  Cottage.  The 
sun  had  not  yet  set ;  but  the  sky  was  dark  with  clouds  that 
threatened  rain  or  snow — and  therefore  Jacquelina  only  took 
time  to  jump  out  and  speak  to  Edith,  shake  hands  with  old 
Jenny,  kiss  Miriam,  and  bid  adieu  to  Marian — and  then  saying 
that  she  believed  she  would  hurry  back  on  her  aunty's  account, 
and  that  she  was  afraid  she  would  not  get  to  Luckenough 
before  ten  o'clock,  anyhow,  she  jumped  into  the  carriage  and 
drove  off. 

And  Marian,  guarding  her  happy  secret,  entered  the  cot- 
tage to  make  preparations  for  keeping  her  appointment  with 
Thurston. 

Meanwhile,  at  Luckenough,  Doctor  Grimshawkept  his  room 
until  late  in  the  afternoon.  Then,  descending  the  stairs,  and 
meeting  the  maid  Maria,  who  almost  shrieked  aloud  at  the 
ghastly  face  that  confronted  her — he  asked, 

"Where  is  Mrs.  GrinishawT' 


NIGIIT      AND      STORM.  477 

"  Lord,  sir !"  cried  the  girl,  half  paralyzed  by  the  sound  of 
his  sepulchral  voice — "  she's  done  gone  home  'long  o'  Miss 
Marian." 

"When  will  she  be  back — do  you  know?" 

"  Lord,  sir !"  cried  Maria,  shuddering,  "  I  heerd  her  tell  old 
Mis',  how  she  didn't  think  she'd  be  back  to-night." 

"Ah !"  said  the  unhappy  man,  in  a  hollow  tone,  that  seemed 
to  sound  from  a  tomb,  as  he  passed  down. 

And  Maria,  glad  to  escape  him,  fled  up  stairs,  and  never 
paused  until  she  had  found  refuge  in  Mrs.  L'Oiseau's  room. 

One  hour  after  that,  Professor  Grimshaw,  closely  enveloped 
in  an  ample  cloak,  left  Luckenough,  and  took  the  road  to  the 
beach. 


CHAPTER    XXXY. 

NIGHT      AND       STORM. 

"The  night  is  Wind  with  a  double  dark, 

The  rain  and  hail  came  down  together 
'Tis  good  to  sit  by  the  fire,  and  hark 
To  the  stormy  wea£her.»-rEdil?i  May. 

THE  heavens  were  growing  very  dark,  the  wind  was  rising 
and  driving  black  clouds  athwart  the  sky,  the  atmosphere  was 
becoming  piercingly  cold,  the  snow,  that  during  the  middle  of 
the  day  had  thawed,  was  freezing  hard.  Yet  Marian  hurried 
fearlessly  and  gayly  on,  over  the  rugged  and  slippery  stubble 
fields  that  lay  between  the  cottage  and  the  beach.  A  rapid 
walk  of  fifteen  minutes  brought  her  down  to  the  water's  edge. 
But  it  was  now  quite  dark.  Nothing  could  be  more  deserted, 
lonely  and  desolate  than  the  aspect  of  this  place.  From  her 
feet  the  black  waters  spread  outward,  till  their  utmost  boun- 
daries were  lost  among  the  blacker  vapors  of  the  distant  hori- 
30 


478  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

zon.  Afar  off,  a  sail,  dimly  seen  or  guessed  at,  glided  ghost- 
like through  the  shadows.  Landward,  the  boundaries  of  field 
and  forest,  hill  and  vale,  were  all  blended,  fused,  in  murky  ob- 
scurity Heavenward,  the  lowering  sky  was  darkened  by  wild, 
scudding,  black  clouds,  driven  by  the  wind,  through  which  the 
young  moon  seemed  plunging  and  hiding  as  in  terror.  The 
tide  was  coming  in,  and  the  waves  surged  heavily  with  a  deep 
moan  upon  the  beach.  Not  a  sound  was  heard,  except  the  dull, 
monotonous  moan  of  the  sea,  and  the  fitful,  hollow  wail  of  the 
wind.  The  character  of  the  scene  was  in  the  last  degree  wild, 
dreary,  gloomy  and  fearful.  Not  so,  however,  it  seemed  to 
Marian,  who,  filled  with  happy,  generous,  and  tumultuous 
thoughts,  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  gathering  darkness  and 
the  lowering  storm,  as  she  walked  up  and  down  upon  the  beach, 
listening  and  waiting.  She  wondered  that  Thurston  had  not 
been  there  ready  to  receive  her ;  but  this  thought  gave  her 
little  uneasiness — it  was  nearly  lost — as  the  storm  and  darkness 
also  were — in  the  brightness  and  gladness  of  her  own  loving, 
generous  emotions.  There  was  no  room  in  her  heart  for  doubt 
or  trouble.  ]f  the  thought  of  the  morning's  conversation  and 
of  Angelica  entered  her  mind,  it  was  only  to  be  soon  dismissed 
with  fair  construction  and  cheerful  hope.  And  then  she  pic- 
tured to  herself  the  surprise,  the  pleasure  of  Thurston,  when 
he  should  hear  of  the  accession  of  fortune  which  should  set 
them  both  free  to  pursue  their  inclinations  and  plans  for  their 
own  happiness  and  for  the  benefit  of  others.  And  she  sought 
in  her  bosom  if  the  letters  were  safe.  Yes  !  there  they  were  ; 
she  felt  them ;  her  happiness  had  seemed  a  dream  without  that 
proof  of  its  reality.  For  once  she  gave  way  to  imagination, 
mid  allowed  that  magician  to  build  castles  in  the  air  at  will. 
Thurston  and  herself  must  go  to  England  immediately  to  take 
possession  of  the  estate — that  was  certain.  Then  they  must 
return.  But  ere  that,  she  would  confide  to  him  her  darling 
project;  one  that  she  had  never  breathed  to  any,  because  to 
have  done  so  would  have  been  vain  ;  one  that  she  had  longingly 
dreamed  of,  but  never,  as  now,  hoped  to  realize.  And  Edith  1 


NIGHT      AND      STORM.  470 

she  would  make  Edith  so  comfortable !  Edith  should  be  again 
surrounded  with  the  elegancies  and  refinements  of  life.  And 
Miriam  !  Miriam  should  have  every  advantage  of  education 
that  wealth  could  possibly  secure  for  her,  either  in  this  country 
or  in  Europe.  If  Edith  would  spare  Miriam,  the  little  girl 
should  go  with  her  to  England.  But  Thurston !  above  all, 
Thurston  !  A  heavy  drop  of  rain  struck  Marian  in  the  face, 
and,  for  an  instant,  woke  her  from  her  blissful  reverie. 

She  looked  up.  Why  did  not  Thurston  come  ?  The  storm 
would  soon  burst  forth  upon  the  earth — where  was  Thurston  ? 
Were  he  by  her  side  there  would  be  nothing  formidable  in  the 
storm,  for  he  would  shelter  her  with  his  cloak  and  umbrella,  as 
they  should  scud  along  over  the  fields  to  the  cottage,  and  reach 
the  fireside  before  the  rain  could  overtake  them.  Where  was 
he  ?  what  could  detain  him  at  such  a  time  ?  She  peered  through 
the  darkness  up  and  down  the  beach.  To  her  accustomed  eye, 
the  features  of  the  landscape  were  dimly  visible.  That  black 
form  looming  like  a  shadowy  giant  before  her,  was  the  headland 
of  Pine  Bluff,  with  its  base  washed  by  the  sullen  waves.  It  was 
the  only  object  that  broke  the  dark,  dull  monotony  of  the 
shore.  She  listened — the  moan  of  the  sea,  the  wail  of  the  wind, 
were  blended  in  mournful  chorus.  It  was  the  only  sound  that 
broke  the  dreary  silence  of  the  hour. 

Hark  !  No,  there  was  another  sound  !  Amid  the  moaning 
and  the  wailing  of  winds  and  waves,  and  the  groaning  of  the 
coming  storm,  was  heard  the  regular  fall  of  oars,  soon  followed 
by  the  slow,  grating  sound  of  a  boat  pushed  up  upon  the  frozen 
strand.  Marian  paused  and  strained  her  eyes  through  the 
darkness  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  but  could  see  nothing 
save  the  deeper,  denser  darkness  around  Pine  Bluff.  She 
turned,  and,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  moved  swiftly  and 
silently  from  the  locality.  The  storm  was  coming  on  very  fast. 
The  rain  was  falling  and  the  wind  rising  and  driving  it  into  her 
face.  She  pulled  her  hood  closely  about  her  face,  and  wrapped 
her  shawl  tightly  about  her  as  she  met  the  blast. 

Oh !  where  was  Thurston,  and  why  did  he  not  come  ?     She 


480  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

blamed  herself  for  having  ventured  out,  yet  could  she  hs  /e 
foreseen  this  ?  Xo,  for  she  had  confidently  trusted  in  his  keep- 
ing his  appointment.  She  had  never  known  him  to  fail  before. 
What  could  have  caused  the  failure  now  ?  Had  he  kept  his 
tryste  they  would  now  have  been  safely  housed  at  Old  Field 
Cottage.  Perhaps  Thurston,  seeing  the  clouds,  had  taken  for 
granted  that  she  would  not  come,  and  he  had  therefore  stayed 
away.  Yet  no — she  could  not  for  an  instant  entertain  that 
thought.  Well  she  knew  that  had  a  storm  risen,  and  raged  as 
never  a  storm  did  before,  Thurston,  upon  the  bare  possibility 
of  her  presence  there,  would  keep  his  appointment.  No  I 
something  beyond  his  control  had  delayed  him.  And,  unless 
he  should  now  very  soon  appear,  something  very  serious  had 
happened  to  him.  The  storm  was  increasing  in  violence ;  her 
shawl  was  already  wet ;  and  she  resolved  to  hurry  home. 

She  had  just  turned  to  go,  when  the  sound  of  a  man's  heavy 
measured  footsteps,  approaching  from  the  opposite  direction, 
fell  upon  her  ear.  She  looked  up  half  in  dread,  and  strained 
her  eyes  out  into  the  blackness  of  the  night.  It  was  too  dark  to 
see  anything  but  the  outline  of  a  man's  figure  wrapped  in  a 
large  cloak,  coming  slowly  on  towards  her ;  as  the  man  drew 
near,  she  recognized  the  well-known  figure,  air  and  gait — she 
had  no  doubt  of  the  identity.  She  hastened  to  meet  him,  ex- 
claiming in  a  low,  eager  tone, 

"  Thurston  !  dear  Thurston." 

The  man  paused,  folded  his  cloak  about  him,  drew  up  and 
stood  perfectly  still. 

Why  did  he  not  answer  her  ?  why  did  he  not  speak  to  her  ? 
why  did  he  stand  so  motionless,  and  look  so  strange  ?  She  could 
not  have  seen  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  even  if  a  flap 
of  his  cloak  had  not  been  folded  across  his  face,  but  his  whole 
form  shook  as  with  an  ague  fit. 

"Thurston,  dear  Thurston,"  she  exclaimed  once  more,  under 
her  breath,  as  she  pressed  towards  him. 

But  he  suddenly  stretched  out  his  hand  to  repulse  her — gasp- 
ing, as  it  were,  breathlessly,  "  Xot  yet — not  yet;"  and  again  his 


NIGHT      AND      STORM.  481 

whole  frame  shook  with  an  inward  storm.  What  could  be  the 
reason  of  his  strange  behaviour  ?  Oh  !  some  misfortune  had 
happened  to  him — that  was  evident.  Would  it  were  only  of  a 
nature  that  her  own  good  news  might  be  able  to  cure.  And  it 
might  be  so.  Full  of  this  thought,  she  was  again  pressing  to- 
wards him,  when  a  violent  flurry  of  rain  and  wind  whistled 
before  her  and  drove  into  her  face,  concealing  him  from  her 
view.  When  the  sudden  gust  as  suddenly  passed,  she  saw  that 
he  remained  in  the  same  spot,  his  breast  heaving,  his  whole 
form  shaking.  She  could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  started  for- 
ward and  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  dropped  her  head 
upon  his  bosom,  and  whispered  in  suppressed  tones, 

,  "  Dearest  Thurston,  what  it  the  matter  ?     Tell  me,  for  I  love 
you  more  than  life." 

The  man  clasped  his  left  arm  fiercely  around  her  waist — lifted 
his  right  hand,  and  hissing  sharply  through  his  clenched  teeth. 

"  You  have  drawn  on  your  own  doom — die,  wretched  girl ;" 
plunged  a  dagger  in  her  bosom,  and  pushed  her  from  him. 

One  sudden,  piercing  shriek,  and  she  dropped  at  his  feet, 
grasping  at  the  ground,  and  writhing  in  agony.  Her  soul 
seemed  striving  to  recover  the  shock,  and  recollect  its  facul- 
ties. She  half  arose  upon  her  elbow,  supported  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  and  with  her  other  hand  drew  the  steel  out  from  her 
bosom,  and  laid  it  down.  The  blood  followed,  and  with  the 
life-stream  her  strength  flowed  away.  The  hand  that  supported 
her  head  suddenly  dropped,  and  she  fell  back.  The  man  had 
been  standing  over  her,  speechless,  motionless,  breathless,  like 
some  wretched  somnambulist,  suddenly  awakened  in  the  com 
mission  of  a  crime,  and  gazing  in  horror,  amazement,  and  un 
belief  upon  the  work  of  his  sleep. 

Suddenly  he  dropped  upon  his  knees  by  her  side,  put  his  arm 
under  her  head  and  shoulders  and  raised  her  up  ;  but  her  chin 
fell  forward  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  eyes  fixed  and  glazed. 
He  laid  her  down  gently,  groaning  in  a  tone  of  unspeakable 
anguish, 

"  Miss  Mav field  !  mv  God  !  what  have  I  done  ?"     And  with 


482  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

an  awful  cry  between  a  shriek  and  a  groan,  the  wretched  man 
cast  himself  upon  the  ground  by  the  side  of  the  fallen  body. 

The  storm  was  beating  -wildly  upon  the  assassin  and  his  vic- 
tim, but  the  one  felt  it  no  more  than  the  other.  At  length  the 
sound  of  footsteps  was  heard  approaching  fast  and  near.  In 
the  very  anguish  of  remorse  the  instinct  of  self-preservation 
seized  the  wretched  man,  and  he  started  up  and  fled  as  from  the 
face  of  the  avenger  of  blood. 


In  the  meantime  Jacquelina  had  reached  home  sooner  than 
she  had  expected.  It  was  just  dark,  and  the  rain  was  begin- 
ning to  fall  as  she  sprang  from  the  carriage  and  darted  into  the 
house. 

Mrs.  Waugh  met  her  in  the  hall,  took  her  hand  and  said, 

"Oh,  my  dear  Lapwing,  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come  back, 
bad  as  the  weather  is,  for  indeed  the  Professor  gives  me  a  great 
deal  of  anxiety,  and  if  you  had  stayed  away  to-night  I  could 
not  have  been  answerable  for  the  consequences.  There,  now, 
hurry  up  stairs  and  change  your  dress,  and  come  down  to  tea. 
It  is  all  ready,  and  we  have  a  pair  of  canvass-back  ducks 
roasted." 

"Very  well,  aunty!     But — is  Grim'  in  the  house?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  love.     You  hurry." 

Jacquelina  tripped  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room,  which  she 
found  lighted,  warmed,  and  attended  by  her  maid,  Maria.  She 
took  off  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  laid  them  aside,  and  began 
to  smooth  her  hair,  dancing  all  the  time,  and  quivering  with 
suppressed  laughter,  in  anticipation  of  her  "fun."  When  she 
had  arranged  her  dress,  she  went  down  stairs  and  passed  into 
the  dining-room,  where  the  supper  table  was  set. 

"  S\.e  if  Nace  Grirashaw  is  in  his  room,  and  if  he  is  not,  we 
will  wait  no  longer !"  said  the  hungry  Commodore,  thumping 
his  heavy  stick  down  upon  the  floor. 

Festus  sprang  to  do  his  bidding,  and  after  an  absence  of  a 
few  minutes  returned  with  the  information  that  the  Professor 
\vus  not  there. 


NIGHT      AND      STORM.  483 

Jacquelina  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  shook  with  inward 
laughter. 

They  all  sat  down,  arid  amid  the  Commodore's  growls  at 
Grinrs  irregular  hours,  and  Jacquelina's  shrugs  and  smiles  and 
sidelong  glances  and  ill-repressed  laughter,  the  meal  passed. 
And  when  it  was  over,  the  Commodore,  leaning  on  Mrs.  Waugh's 
arm,  went  to  his  own  particular  sofa  in  the  back  parlor ;  Mrs. 
L'Oiseau  remained,  to  superintend  the  clearing  away  of  tho 
supper- table ;  and  Jacquelina  danced  on  to  the  front  parlor, 
where  she  found  no  one  but  the  maid,  who  was  mending  the  fire. 

"  Say !  did  you  see  anything  of  the  Professor  while  I  was 
gone  ?".  she  inquired. 

"  Lors,  honey,  I  wish  I  hadn't !  I  knows  how  de  thought 
of  it  will  give  me  'liriums  nex'  time  I  has  a  fever." 

"Why?  what  did  he  do?  when  was  it?" 

"  Why,  chile,  jes  afore  sundown,  as  I  was  a  carryin'  an  arm- 
ful of  wood  up  stairs,  for  Miss  Mary's  room,  I  meets  de  'fessor 
a  -comin'  down.  I  like  to  a'  screamed !  I  like  to  a'  let  de  wood 
drap!  I  like  to  a  drapped  right  down  myself!  It  made  my 
heart  beat  in  de  back  o'  my  head!  he  look  so  awful,  horrid 
gashly.  Arter  speakin'  in  a  voice  hollow  as  an  empty  coffin,  an' 
skeering  me  out'n  my  seventeen  sensibles  axin  arter  you,  he  jes 
tuk  hisself  off  summers,  an'  I  aint  seen  him  sence." 

"  What  did  he  ask  you  ?  what  did  you  tell  him  ?" 

"  He  jes  ax  where  you  was  ;  I  telled  him  how  you  wer'  gone 
home  long  o'  Miss  Marian ;  he  ax  when  you  were  coming  back ; 
I  telled  him  I  believed  not  till  to-morrow  mornin';  then  his  face 
turned  all  sorts  of  awful  dark  colors,  an'  seemed  like  it  crushed 
right  in,  an'  he  nodded  and  said,  'Ah!'  but  it  sounded  jes  like  a 
hollow  groan  ;  and  he  tuk  hisself  off,  and  I  aint  seen  him  sencc." 

The  elf  danced  about  the  room,  unable  to  restrain  her  glee. 
And  the  longer  Doctor  Grimshaw  remained  away,  the  more 
excited  she  grew  She  skipped  about  like  the  very  sprite  of 
mischief,  exclaiming  to  herself, 

"  Oh !  shan't  we  have  fun  presently !  Oh,  shan't  we,  though  ! 
The  Grim'  maniac !  he  has  gone  to  detect  ME  !  And  he'll 


484  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

break  ir  npon  Thnrston  and  Marian's  interview.  Wont  ther« 
be  an  explosion!  Oh,  Jupiter!  Oh,  Pnck!  Oh,  Mercury!  what 
fun,  what  delicious  fun !  Wr-r-r-r  !  I  can  scarcely  contain  myself ! 
Begone,  Maria !  vanish  I  I  want  all  the  space  in  this  room  to 
myself!  Oh,  fun  alive  1  What  a  row  there'll  be!  methinks  I 
hear  the  din  of  battle ! 

"Oh,  clang  a  rang,  a  rang,  clang,  clash! 

Whoop !" 

sang  the  elf,  springing  and  dancing,  and  spinning,  and  whirling, 
around  and  around  the  room  in  the  very  ecstasy  of  mischief. 
Her  dance  was  brought  to  a  sudden  and  an  awful  close. 

The  hall  door  was  thrown  violently  open,  hurried  and  irregulai 
steps  were  heard  approaching,  the  parlor  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  Doctor  Grimshaw  staggered  forward  and  paused  befor* 
her! 

Yes !  her  frolic  was  brought  to  an  eternal  end.  She  saw  at  a 
glance  that  something  fatal,  irreparable,  had  happened.  There* 
was  blood  upon  his  hands  and  wristbands.  Oh,  more !  fa» 
more !  there  was  the  unmistakable  mark  of  Cain  upon  his  writher. 
brow!  Before  now  she  had  seen  him  look  pale  and  wild  am1 
haggard,  and  had  known  neither  fear  nor  pity  for  him !  buf 
now!  an  exhumed  corpse  galvanized  into  a  horrid  semblance 
of  life,  might  look  as  he  did  !  with  just  such  sunken  cheeks  am* 
ashen  lips,  and  frozen  eyes!  with  just  such  a  collapsed  anO 
shuddering  form!  yet,  withal,  could  not  have  shown  that  terrific 
look  of  utter,  incurable  despair!  His  fingers,  talon-like  IP 
their  horny  paleness  and  rigidity,  clutched  his  breast,  as  if  to 
tear  some  mortal  anguish  thence,  and  his  glassy  eyes  were  fixec1 
in  unutterable  reproach  upon  her  face !  Thrice  he  essayed  to 
speak,  but  a  gurgling  noise  in  his  throat  was  the  only  result. 
With  a  last  great  effort  to  articulate,  the  blood  suddenly  filled 
his  throat  and  gushed  from  his  mouth!  For  a  moment  he 
sought  to  stay  the  hemorrhage  by  pressing  a  handkerchief  to 
his  lips,  but  soon  his  hand  dropped  powerless  to  his  side,  he 
reeled  and  fell  upon  the  floor ! 

Jacquelina  gazed  in  horror  on  her  work. 


X  I  G  II  T       AND      STORM.  485 

And  then  Itcr  screams  of  terror  filled  the  house! 

The  family  came  rushing  rn.  Foremost  entered  the  Commo- 
dore, shaking  his  stick  iu  a  towering  passion,  and  exclaiming, 
at  the  top  of  his  7oice, 

"What  the  d— 1  is  all  this?  What's  broke  loose  now? 
What  are  you  raising  all  this  row  for,  you  infernal  little  Hurri- 
cane ?" 

"  Oh,  uncle !  aunty !  mother !  look !  look !"  exclaimed  Jacque- 
lina,  wringing  her  pale  fingers,  and  pointing  to  the  fallen  man. 

The  sight  arrested  all  eyes. 

The  miserable  man  lay  over  on  his  side,  ghastly  pale,  and 
breathing  laboriously,  every  breath  pumping  out  the  life  blood 
that  had  made  a  little  pool  beside  his  face. 

Mrs.  Waugh  and  Mary  L'Oiseau  hastened  to  stoop  and  raise 
the  sufferer.  The  Commodore  drew  near,  half  stupefied,  as  he 
always  was  in  a  crisis. 

"  What— what— what's  all  this?  Who  did  it?  how  did  it 
happen  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  look  of  dull  amazement. 

"  Give  me  a  sofa  cushion,  Maria,  to  place  under  his  head. 
Mary  L'Oiseau,  hurry  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  send  a  boy  for 
Doctor  Brightwell ;  tell  him  to  take  the  swiftest  horse  in  the 
stable,  and  ride  for  life  and  death,  and  bring  the  physician 
instantly,  for  Doctor  Grimshaw  is  dying — hurry ! 

"Dying?  eh!  what!  what  did  you  say,  Henrietta?"  inquired 
the  Commodore,  iu  a  sort  of  stupid,  blind  anxiety,  for  he  was 
unable  to  comprehend  what  had  happened.  "  Speak  to  me, 
Henrietta !  What  is  the  matter  ?  what  ails  Grim'  ?" 

"He  has  ruptured  an  artery,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  gravely,  as 
she  laid  the  sufferer  gently  back  upon  the  carpet,  and  placed 
the  sofa  pillow  under  his  head. 

"  Ruptured  an  artery !  How  did  it  happen  ?  Grim' !  Xace ! 
speak  to  me — how  do  you  feel  ?  Oh,  Heaven,  he  doesn't  speak  ! 
he  doesn't  hear  me !  Oh,  Henrietta,  he  is  very  ill !  he  is  very 
ill !  he  must  be  put  to  bed  at  once,  and  the  doctor  sent  for ! 
Come  here,  Maria!  help  me  to  lift  your  young  master,"  suid 
the  old  man,  waking  up  to  anxiety. 
40* 


486 


THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 


"  Stay !  the  doctor  has  been  sent  for ;  but  he  must  not  be 
moved,  it  would  be  fatal  to  him  ;  indeed,  I  fear  that  he  is  beyond 
human  help,"  said  Henrietta,  as  she  wiped  the  gushing  stream 
from  the  lips  of  the  dying  man. 

"Beyond  human  help!  eh?  what?  Nace !  no,  no,  no,  no,  ih 
can't  be  !"  said  the  old  man,  kneeling  down,  and  bending  over 
him  in  helpless  trouble. 

"Attend  Doctor  Grimshaw,  while  I  hurry  out  and  see  what 
can  be  done,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Waugh,  resigning  her  charge, 
and  then  hastening  from  the  room.  She  soon  returned,  bring- 
ing with  her  such  remedies  as  her  limited  knowledge  suggested. 
And  she  and  Mary  L'Oiseau  applied  them  ;  but  in  vain  !  every 
effort  for  his  relief  seemed  but  to  hasten  his  death.  The 
hemorrhage  was  subsiding,  so  also  was  his  breath.  "  It  is  too 
late,  he  is  dying,"  said  Henrietta,  solemnly. 

"  Dying !  no,  no,  Nace  !  Nace  !  speak  to  me,  Nace  !  you're 
not  dying  !  I've  lost  more  blood  than  that  in  my  time  !  Nace  1 
Xace !  speak  to  your  old — speak,  Nace !"  cried  the  Commo- 
dore, stooping  down  and  raising  the  sufferer  in  his  arms,  and 
gazing,  half-wildly,  half-stupidly,  at  the  congealing  face. 

He  continued  thus  for  some  moments,  until  Mrs.  Waugh, 
putting  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  said  gravely  and  kindly, 

"Lay  him  down,  Commodore  Waugh — he  is  gone." 

"  Gone !  Gone !"  echoed  the  old  man,  in  his  imbecile  distrac- 
tion, and  dropped  his  gray  head  upon  the  corpse,  and  groaned 
aloud. 

Mrs.  Waugh  came  and  laid  her  hand  affectionately  on  his 
shoulder.  He  looked  up  in  such  hopeless,  helpless  trouble,  and 
cried  out, 

"  Oh,  Henrietta,  he  was  my  son,  my  only,  only  son  !  my  poor  ! 
unowned  boy  !  Oh,  Henrietta,  is  he  dead  ?  are  you  sure  ?  is  he 
quite  gone?" 

"  He  is  gone,  Commodore  Waugh  ;  lay  him  clown  ;  come  away 
to  your  room,"  said  Henrietta,  gently  taking  his  hand. 

Jacquelina,  white  wi^.h  horror,  was  kneeling  with  clasped 
hands  and  dilated  eyes,  gazing  on  the  ruin.  The  old  man's 


THE   BODY   ON   THE   BEACH.      487 

glance  fell  upon  her  there,  and  liis  passion  changed  from  grief 
to  fury — fiercely  he  broke  forth, 

"It  was  you!  Ton  are  the  murderess — you!  Heaven's 
vengeance  light  upon  you  !" 

"  Oh,  I  never  meant  it !  I  never  meant  it !  I  am  very 
wretched.  I  wish  I'd  never  been  born  1"  cried  Jacquelina, 
wringing  her  pale  fingers. 

"  Out  of  my  sight,  you  Curse  !  Out  of  my  sight !  and  may 
Heaven's  wrath  pursue  you !"  thundered  the  Commodore,  shak- 
ing with  grief  and  rage. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE      BODY      ON      THE      BEACH. 

"  Between  th'  enacting  of  a  dreadful  deed 
And  the  first  motion  all  the  interim  is 
Like  the  phantasma  of  a  hideous  dream." — Shakspeare. 

IN  the  meanwhile,  where  was  he  whose  headlong  passions  had 
precipitated  this  catastrophe  ?  where  was  Thurston  ?  After 
having  parted  with  his  confederate,  he  hurried  home,  for  a  very 
busy  day  lay  before  him.  To  account  for  his  sudden  departure, 
and  long  absence,  and  to  cover  his  retreat,  it  was  necessary  to 
have  some  excuse,  such  as  a  peremptory  summons  to  Baltimore 
upon  the  most  important  business.  Once  in  that  city,  he  would 
have  leisure  to  find  some  further  apology  for  proceeding  di- 
rectly to  France  without  first  returning  home.  Now,  strange 
as  it  may  appear,  though  his  purposed  treachery  to  Marian 
wrung  his  bosom  with  remorse  whenever  he  paused  to  think  of 
it — yet  it  was  a  remorse  without  humiliation  ;  for  he  persuaded 
himself  that  stratagem  was  fair  in  love  as  in  war,  especially  in 
his  case  with  Marian,  who  had  already  given  him  her  hand: 


488  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

but  now  the  unforeseen  necessity  of  these  subterfuges  made  his 
cheek  burn.  He  hastened  to  Dell-Delight,  and  showing  the 
old  man  a  letter  he  had  that  morning  received  from  the  city, 
informed  him  that  he  was  obliged  to  depart  immediately,  upon 
affairs  of  the  most  urgent  moment  to  him,  and  then,  to  escape 
the  sharp  stings  of  self-scorn,  he  busied  himself  with  arranging 
his  papers,  packing  his  trunks  and  ordering  his  servants.  His 
baggage  was  packed  into  and  behind  the  old  family  carriage, 
and  having  completed  his  preparations  about  one  o'clock,  he 
entered  it,  and  was  driven  rapidly  to  the  village. 

The  schooner  was  already  at  the  wharf  and  waiting  for  him. 
Thurston  met  many  of  his  friends  in  the  village,  and  in  an  off- 
hand manner  explained  to  them  the  ostensible  cause  of  his  jour- 
ney. And  thus,  in  open  daylight,  gayly  chatting  with  his 
friends,  Thurston  superintended  the  embarkation  of  his  bag- 
gage. And  it  was  not  until  after  one  by  one  they  had  shaken 
hands  with  him,  wished  him  a  good  voyage  and  departed,  that 
Thurston  found  himself  alone  with  the  captain  in  the  cabin. 

"  Xow  you  know,  Miles,  that  I  have  not  come  on  board  to 
remain.  When  the  coast  is  clear  I  shall  go  on  shore,  get  in 
the  carriage,  and  return  to  Dell-Delight.  I  must  meet  my  wife 
on  the  beach.  I  must  remain  with  her  through  all.  /must 
take  her  on  board.  You  will  be  off  Pine  Bluff  just  at  dusk, 
captain  ?" 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir." 

"  You  will  not  be  a  moment  behind-hand  ?" 

"  Trust  me  for  that,  Cap'n." 

"  See  if  the  people  have  left." 

"  The  skipper  went  on  deck  and  returned,  to  report  the  coast 
clear. 

Thurston  then  went  on  shore,  entered  the  carriage,  and  was 
driven  homeward. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  he  reached  Dell-Delight,  and 
there  he  found  the  whole  premises  in  a  state  of  confusion. 
Several  negroes  were  on  the  lookout  for  him  :  and  as  soon  as 
they  saw  him  ran  to  the  house. 


THE   BODY   ON   THE   BEACH.      489 

"What  is  meaning  of  all  this?"  he  inquired,  detaining  one 
of  the  hindmost. 

"  Oh,  Marse  Thuster,  sir  !  oh,  sir !"  exclaimed  the  boy,  roll- 
ing his  eyes  quite  wildly. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  fool  ?" 

"  Oh,  sir!  my  poor  ole  marse !  my  poor  ole  marse  !" 

"What  has  happened  to  your  master?  can't  you  be 
plain,  sir?" 

"  Oh,  Marse  Thuster,  sir!  he  done  fell  down  inter  a  fit,  an' 
had  to  be  toted  off  to  bed." 

"  A  fit !  good  heavens !  has  a  doctor  been  summoned  ?" 
exclaimed  Thurston,  springing  from  his  seat. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  !  Jase  be  done  gone  arter  de  doctor." 

Thurston  stopped  to  inquire  no  farther,  but  ran  into  the 
house  and  up  into  his  grandfather's  chamber. 

There  a  distressing  scene  met  his  eyes.  The  old  man,  with 
his  limbs  distorted,  and  his  face  swollen  and  discolored,  lay  in 
a  state  of  insensibility  upon  the  bed.  Two  or  three  negro 
women  were  gathered  around  him,  variously  occupied  with  rub- 
bing his  hands,  chafing  his  temples,  and  wiping  the  oozing  foam 
from  bis  lips.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  poor  daft  Fanny, 
with  disheveled  hair  and  dilated  eyes,  chanting  a  grotesque 
monologue,  and  keeping  time  with  a  see-saw  motion  from  side 
to  side.  The  first  thing  Thurston  did,  was  to  take  the  hand  of 
this  poor  crazed,  but  docile  creature,  and  lead  her  from  the  sick 
room  up  iu-lo  her  own.  He  bade  her  remain  there,  and  then 
returned  to  his  grandfather's  bedside.  In  reply  to  his  anxious 
questioning,  he  was  informed  that  the  old  man  had  fallen  into 
a  fit  about  an  hour  before — that  a  boy  had  been  instantly  sent 
for  the  doctor,  and  the  patient  carried  to  bed ;  but  that  he  had 
not  spoken  since  they  laid  him  there.  It  would  yet  be  an  hour 
before  the  doctor  could  possibly  arrive,  and  the  state  of  the 
patient  demanded  instant  attention. 

And  withal  Thurston  was  growing  very  anxious  upon  Marian's 
account.  The  sun  was  now  sinking  under  a  dark  bank  of 
clouds.  The  hour  of  his  appointed  meeting  with  her  was  ap« 


490  I  H  E      MISSING      BRIDE 

preaching.  He  felt,  of  course,  tuat  his  scheme  must  for  the 
present  be  deferred — even  if  its  accomplishment  should  again 
seem  necessary,  which  was  scarcely  possible.  But  Marian  would 
expect  him.  And  how  should  he  prevent  her  from  coming  to 
the  beach  and  waiting  for  him  there  ?  He  did  not  know  where 
a  message  would  be  most  likely  now  to  find  her,  whether  at 
Luckenough,  at  Old  Fields,  or  at  Colonel  Thornton's.  But  he 
momentarily  expected  the  arrival  of  Doctor  Brightwell,  and  he 
resolved  to  leave  that  good  man  in  attendance  at  the  sick  bed, 
while  he  himself  should  escape  for  a  few  hours,  and  hurry  to 
the  beach  to  meet  and  have  an  explanation  with  his  wife. 

But  an  hour  passed,  and  the  doctor  did  not  come.  Thurs- 
ton's  eyes  wandered  anxiously  from  the  distorted  face  of  the 
dying  man  before  him,  to  the  window  that  commanded  the 
approach  to  the  house.  But  no  sign  of  the  doctor  was  to  be 
seen. 

The  sun  was  on  the  very  edge  of  the  horizon.  The  sufferer 
before  him  was  evidently  approaching  his  end.  Marian  he 
knew  must  be  on  her  way  to  the  beach.  And  a  dreadful  storm 
was  rising. 

His  anxiety  reached  fever  heat. 

He  could  not  leave  the  bedside  of  his  dying  relative,  yet 
Marian  must  not  be  permitted  to  wait  upon  the  beach,  exposed 
to  the  fierceness  of  the  storm,  or  worse,  the  rudeness  of  his  own 
confederates. 

He  took  a  sudden  resolution,  and  wondered  that  he  had  not 
done  so  before.  He  resolved  to  summon  Marian  as  his  wife 
to  his  home. 

Full  of  this  thought,  he  hastened  down  stairs  and  ordered 
Melchizedek  to  put  the  horse  to  the  gig  and  get  ready  to  go  an 
errand.  And  while  the  boy  was  obeying  his  directions,  Thurs- 
ton  penned  the  following  lines  to  Marian  : 

"  My  dear  Marian — my  dear,  generous,  long-suffering  wife — • 
"ome  to  my  aid.  My  grandfather  has  been  suddenly  stricken 
down  with  apoplexy,  and  is  dying.  The  physician  has  not  yet 
arrived,  and  I  cannot  leave  his  bedside.  Return  with  my  mes- 


THE      BODY      ON      THE      BEACH.  49  L 

sender,  to  assist  me  in  taking  care  of  the  dying  man.  You, 
who  are  the  angel  of  the  sick  and  suffering,  will  not  refuse  me 
your  aid.  Come,  never  to  leave  rae  more  !  Our  marriage  shall 
be  acknowledged  to-morrow,  to-night,  any  time,  that  you,  in 
your  nicer  judgment,  shall  approve.  Come  !  let  nothing  hinder 
you.  I  will  send  a  message  to  Edith  to  set  her  anxiety  at  rest, 
or  I  will  send  for  her  to  be  with  you  here.  Come  to  me,  be- 
loved Marian.  Dictate  your  own  conditions  if  you  will — only 
come." 

He  had  scarcely  sealed  this  note,  when  the  boy,  hat  in  hand, 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Take  this  note,  sir,  jump  in  the  gig  and  drive  as  fast  as 
possible  to  the  beach  below  Pine  Bluffs.  You  will  see  Miss 
Mayfield  waiting  there,  give  her  this  note,  and  then — await  her 
orders.  Be  quicker  than  you  ever  were  before,"  said  Thurston, 
hurrying  his  messenger  off. 

Then  much  relieved  of  anxiety  upon  Marian's  account,  he 
returned  to  the  sick-room,  and  renewed  his  endeavors  to  relieve 
the  patient. 

Ah!  he  was  far  past  relief  now;  he  was  stricken  with  death. 
And  with  Thurston,  all  thoughts,  all  feelings,  all  interests,  even 
those  connected  with  Marian,  were  soon  lost  in  that  awful  pre- 
sence. It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  looked  upon  death, 
and  now,  in  the  rushing  tide  of  his  sinful  passions  and  impetu- 
ous will,  he  was  brought  face  to  face  with  this  last,  dread,  all- 
conqnering  power !  What  if  it  were  not  in  his  own  person  ? 
What  if  it  were  in  the  person  of  an  old  man,  very  infirm,  and 
over-ripe  for  the  great  reaper  ?  It  was  DEATH — the  final  earthly 
end  of  every  living  creatures-death,  the  demolition  of  the  human 
form,  the  breaking  up  of  the  vital  functions,  the  dissolution  be- 
tween soul  and  body,  the  one  great  event  that  "happeneth  to 
all;"  the  doom  certain,  the  hour  uncertain  ;  coming  in  infancy, 
youth,  maturity,  as  often  or  oftener  than  in  age.  These  were 
the  thoughts  that  filled  Thurston's  mind  as  he  stood  and  wiped 
the  clammy  dews  from  the  brow  of  the  dying  man. 

Thurston  might  have  remained  much  longer,  too  deeply  and 


492  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

painfully  absorbed  in  thought  to  notice  the  darkening  of  tho 
night  or  the  beating  of  the  storm,  had  not  a  gust  of  rain  and 
wind,  of  unusual  violence,  shaken  the  windows. 

This  recalled  Marian  to  his  mind  ;  it  was  nearly  time  for 
her  to  arrive ;  he  hoped  that  she  was  near  the  house  ;  that  she 
would  soon  be  there  ;  he  arose  and  went  to  the  window  to  look 
forth  into  the  night;  but  the  deep  darkness  prevented  his  see- 
ing, as  the  noise  of  the  storm  prevented  his  hearing  the  ap- 
proach of  any  vehicle  that  might  be  near.  He  went  back  to 
the  bedside;  the  old  man  was  breathing  his  life  away  without 
a  struggle.  Thurston  called  the  mulatto  housekeeper  to  take 
his  place,  and  then  went  down  stairs  and  out  of  the  hall  door, 
and  gazed  and  listened  for  the  coming  of  the  gig,  in  vain.  He 
was  just  about  to  re-enter  the  hall  and  close  the  door,  when  the 
sound  of  wheels,  dashing  violently,  helter-skelter,  and  with 
break-neck  speed  into  the  yard,  arrested  his  attention. 

"  Marian  !  it  is  my  dear  Marian  at  last ;  but  the  fellow  need 
not  risk  her  life  to  save  her  from  the  storm  by  driving  at  that 
rate.  My  own  Marian !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  hurried  out,  ex- 
pecting to  meet  her. 

Melchizedek  alone  sprang  from  the  gig,  and  sank  trembling 
and  quaking  at  his  master's  feet. 

Thurston  blindly  pushed  past  him,  and  peered  and  felt  in  the 
gig.  It  was  empty. 

"Where  is  the  lady,  sirrah  ?  What  ails  you?  Why  don't 
you  answer  me?"  exclaimed  Thurston,  anxiously  returning  to 
the  spot  where  the  boy  crouched.  But  the  latter  remained 
speechless,  trembling,  groaning,  and  wringing  his  hands.  "  Will 
you  speak,  idiot  ?  I  ask  you  where  is  the  lady  ?  was  she  not 
upon  the  beach  ?  What  has  frightened  you  so  ?  Did  the  horse 
run  away  ?"  inquired  Thurston,  hurriedly,  in  great  alarm. 

"  Oh,  sir,  marster !  I  'spects  she's  killed  !" 

"  Killed  !  Oh,  my  God !  she  has  been  thrown  from  the  gig !" 
cried  the  young  man,  in  a  piercing  voice,  as  he  reeled  under 
this  blow.  In  another  instant  he  sprang  upon  the  poor  boy, 
and  shaking  him  furiously,  cried  in  a  voice  of  mingled  grief, 


THE   BODY   ON   THE   BEACH.     493 

rage,  and  anxiety — "Where  was  she  thrown,  sir?  Where  is 
she  ?  How  did  it  happen  ?  Oh  !  villain  !  villain  !  you  shall 
pay  for  this  with  your  life  !  Come  and  show  me  the  spot !  in- 
stantly !  instantly !" 

"Oh,  marster,  have  mercy,  sir!  'Twasn't  along  o'  me  an' 
(be  gig  it  happened  of!  She  wur  'parted  when  I  got  there  !" 

"Where?  Where?  Good  Heaven,  where?"  asked  Thurs- 
ton,  nearly  beside  himself. 

"  On  de  beach,  sir.  Jes'  as  I  got  down  there,  I  jumped  out'n 
de  gig,  and  walked  along,  and  then  I  couldn't  see  my  way,  an' 
I  turned  de  bull-eye  ob  de  lantern  on  de  sand  afore  me,  an'  oh, 
niarse — " 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !" 

"  I  seen  de  lady  lying  like  dead,  and  a  man  jump  up  and  run 
away,  and  when  I  went  nigh,  I  seen  her  all  welkering  in  her 
blood,  an'  dis  yer  lying  by  her,"  and  the  boy  handed  a  small 
poignard  to  his  master. 

It  was  Thurston 's  own  iveapon,  that  he  had  lost  some  months 
previous  in  the  woods  of  Luckenough.  It  was  a  costly  and 
curious  specimen  of  French  taste  and  ingenuity.  The  handle 
was  of  pearl,  carved  in  imitation  of  the  sword-fish,  and  the  blade 
corresponded  to  the  long  pointed  beak  that  gives  the  fish  that 
name. 

Thurston  scarcely  noticed  that  it  was  his  dagger,  but  push- 
ing the  boy  aside,  he  ran  to  the  stables,  saddled  a  horse  with 
the  swiftness  of  thought,  threw  himself  into  his  stirrups,  and 
galloped  furiously  away  towards  the  beach. 

The  rain  was  now  falling  in  torrents,  and  the  wind  driving  it 
in  fierce  gusts  against  his  face.  The  tempest  was  at  its  very 
height,  and  it  seemed  at  times  impossible  to  breast  the  blast — 
it  seemed  as  though  steed  and  rider  must  be  overblown  !  Yet  he 
lashed  aud  spurred  his  horse,  and  struggled  desperately  on,  think- 
ing with  fierce  anguish  of  Marian,  his  Marian,  lying  wounded, 
helpless,  alone  and  dying,  exposed  to  all  the  fury  of  the  winds 
and  waves  upon  that  tempestuous  coast,  and  dreading  with 
horror,  lest,  before  he  should  be  able  to  reach  her,  her  helpless 
31 


404  THE      MISSIXQ      BRIDE. 

form,  still  living,  might  be  washed  off  by  the  advancing  waves. 
Thus  he  spurred  and  lashed  his  horse,  and  drove  him  against 
rain  and  wind,  and  through  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

With  all  his  desperate  haste,  it  was  two  hours  before  he  ap- 
proached the  beach.  And  as  he  drew  near,  the  heavy  cannon- 
ading of  the  waves  upon  the  shore  admonished  him  that  the 
tide  was  at  its  highest  point.  He  pressed  rapidly  onward, 
threw  himself  from  his  horse,  and  ran  forward  to  the  edge  of 
the  bank  above  the  beach.  It  was  only  to  meet  the  confirma- 
tion of  his  worst  fears.  The  waters  were  thundering  against 
the  bank  upon  which  he  stood.  The  tide  had  come  in  and 
overswept  the  whole  beach,  and  now,  lashed  and  driven  by  the 
wind,  the  waves  tossed  and  raved  and  roared  with  appalling 
fury. 

Marian  was  gone,  lost,  swept  away  by  the  waves !  that  was 
the  thought  that  wrung  from  him  a  cry  of  fierce  agony,  piercing 
through  all  the  discord  of  the  storm,  as  he  ran  up  and  down 
the  shore,  hoping  nothing,  expecting  nothing,  yet  totally  unable 
to  tear  himself  from  the  fatal  spot. 

And  so  he  wildly  walked  and  raved,  until  his  garments  were 
drenched  through  with  the  rain  ;  until  the  storm  exhausted  its 
fury  and  subsided;  until  the  changing  atmosphere,  the  still, 
severe  cold,  froze  all  his  clothing  stiff  around  him ;  so  he 
walked,  groaning  and  crying  and  calling  despairingly  upon  the 
name  of  Marian,  until  the  night  waned  and  the  morning  dawned, 
and  the  eastern  horizon  grew  golden,  then  crimson,  then  fiery 
with  the  coming  sun. 

The  sky  was  clear,  the  waters  calm,  the  sands  bare  and  glis- 
tening in  the  early  sunbeams  ;  no  vestige  of  the  storm  or  of  the 
bloody  outrage  of  the  night  remained — all  was  peace  and  beauty. 
In  the  distance  was  a  single  snow-white  sail,  floating  swan-like 
oa  the  bosom  of  the  blue  waters.  All  around  was  beauty 
and  peace,  yet  from  the  young  man's  tortured  bosom  peace 
had  (led,  and  remorse,  vulture-like,  had  struck  its  talons 
deep  into  his  heart.  He  called  himself  a  murderer,  the  de- 
stroyer of  Marian  ;  he  said  it  was  his  selfishness,  his  willfulness, 


THE   BODY   ON   THE   BEACH.      495 

his  treachery,  that  had  exposed  her  to  this  danger,  and  brought 
her  to  this  fate !  Some  outlaw,  some  waterman,  or  fugitive 
negro  had  robbed  and  murdered  her.  Marian  usually  -wore  a 
very  valuable  watch  ;  probably,  also,  she  had  money  about  her 
person — enough  to  have  tempted  the  cupidity  of  some  lawless 
wretch.  He  shrunk  in  horror  from  pursuing  conjecture — it 
was  worse  than  torture,  worse  than  madness  to  him.  Oh,  blind- 
ness and  frenzy  !  why  had  he  not  thought  of  these  dangers  so 
likely  to  beset  her  solitary  path  ?  Why  had  he  so  recklessly  ex- 
posed her  to  them  ?  Vain  questions,  alas  !  vain  as  was  his  self- 
reproach,  his  anguish  and  despair ! 

In  the  meantime,  how  had  the  morning  broken  upon  Dell- 
Delight  ?  how  upon  Luckenough  ?  and  how  at  Old  Field  Cot- 
tage ? 

At  Dell-Delight,  the  old  man  had  expired  just  before  the  sun 
arose.  The  two  physicians  that  had  been  summoned  the  night 
previous,  but  had  been  delayed  by  the  storm,  arrived  in  the 
morning  only  to  see  the  patient  die.  Many  inquiries  were  madej 
and  much  conjecture  formed,  as  to  the  cause  of  Thurston  Will- 
coxeu's  improper  and  unaccountable  absence  at  such  a  juncture. 
But  Melchizedek,  poor,  faithful  fellow,  having  followed  his  mas- 
ter's steps,  did  not  appear,  and  no  one  else  upon  the  premises 
could  give  any  explanation  relative  to  the  movements  of  their 
young  master.  He  had  left  the  bedside  of  his  dying  relative  at 
nine  o'clock  the  night  before,  and  he  had  not  since  returned — • 
his  saddle-horse  was  gone  from  the  stable — that  was  all  that 
could  be  ascertained.  Dr.  Brightwell  took  his  departure,  to 
answer  other  pressing  calls.  But  Dr.  Weismann,  seeing  that 
there  was  no  responsible  person  In  charge,  and  having  elsewhere 
no  urgent  demands  upon  his  time  and  attention,  kindly  volun- 
teered to  stay  and  superintend  affairs  at  Dell-Delight,  until  the 
reappearance  of  the  young  master. 


At  Old  Field  Cottage,  Edith  had  sat  up  late  the  night  oefore 
waiting  for  Marian ;  but  seeing  that  she  did  not  ret'.rn,  tu»d 


49b  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

taken  it  for  granted  that  she  had  remained  all  night  with  Miss 
Thornton,  and  so,  without  the  least  uneasiness  at  her  prolonged 
absence,  had  retired  to  rest.  And  in  the  morning  she  arose 
with  the  same  impression  on  her  mind,  gayly  looking  forward 
to  Marian's  return  with  the  visitor,  and  the  certain  happy  reve- 
lation she  had  promised. 

She  had  breakfast  over  early,  made  the  room  very  tidy, 
dressed  Miriam  in  her  holiday  clothes,  put  on  her  own  Sunday 
gown,  and  sat  down  to  wait  for  Marian  and  the  visitor.  The 
morning  passed  slowly,  in  momentary  expectation  of  an  arrival. 

It  was  near  eleven  o'clock  when  she  looked  up  and  saw 
Colonel  Thornton's  carriage  approaching  the  cottage. 

"  There  I  I  said  so !  I  knew  Marian  had  remained  with 
Miss  Thornton,  and  that  they  would  bring  her  home  this  morn- 
ing. I  suppose  Colonel  Thornton  and  his  sister  are  both  with 
her !  And  now  for  the  revelation  !  I  wonder  what  it  is,"  said 
Edith,  smiling  to  herself,  as  she  arose  and  stroked  down  her 
dress,  and  smoothed  her  ringlets,  preparatory  to  meeting  her 


By  this  time  the  carriage  had  drawn  up  before  the  cottage 
gate.  Edith  went  out  just  in  time  to  see  the  door  opened,  and 
Miss  Thornton  alight.  The  lady  was  alone — that  Edith  saw  at 
the  first  glance,  and, 

"What  can  be  the  meaning  of  this?"  she  asked  herself,  as 
she  went  forward  to  welcome  her  visitor. 

But  Miss  Thornton  was  very  pale  and  tremulous,  and  she 
acted  altogether  strangely. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Thornton  ?  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you," 
said  Edith,  cordially  offering  her  hand. 

But  the  lady  seized  it,  and  drew  her  forcibly  towards  the 
door,  saying,  in  a  husky  voice, 

"  Come  in — come  in." 

Full  of  surprise,  Edith  followed  her. 

"'  Sit  down,"  she  continued,  sinking  into  a  chair,  and  point- 
ing to  a  vacant  one  by  her  side. 

Edith  took  the  seat,  and  waited  in  wonder  for  her  fartner 
speech. 


THE   BODY   ON   THE   BEACH.      497 

"Where  is  Marian  ?"  asked  Miss  Thornton,  in  an  agitated 
voice. 

"  Where  ?  Why,  I  believed  her  to  be  at  your  house  1"  an- 
swered Edith,  in  surprise  and  vague  fear. 

"  Good  heaven !"  exclaimed  the  lady,  growing  very  pale,  and 
trembling  in  every  limb.  Edith  started  up  in  alarm. 

"  Miss  Thornton,  what  do  you  mean  ?  For  mercy  sake,  tell 
me,  has  anything  happened  ?" 

"I  do  not  know — I  am  not  sure — I  trust  not — tell  me  I  when 
did  you  see  her  last?  when  did  she  leave  home  ?  this  morning?" 

"  No!  last  evening,  about  sundown." 

"And  she  has  not  returned  ?  you  have  not  seen  her  since  ?" 

"No!" 

"Did  she  tell  you  where  she  was  going  ?" 

"No!" 

"  Did  she  promise  to  come  back  ?  and  when  ?" 

"  She  promised  to  return  before  dark !  she  did  not  do  so  !  I 
judged  the  storm  had  detained  her,  and  that  she  was  with  you, 
and  I  felt  easy." 

"  Oh,  God  !"  cried  the  lady,  in  a  voice  of  deep  distress,  and 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Miss  Thornton!  for  Heaven's  sake!  tell  me  what  has  oc- 
curred!" 

"  Oh,  Edith !" 

"  In  mercy,  explain  yourself — Marian !  what  of  Marian  ?" 

"  Oh,  God,  sustain  you,  Edith  !  what  can  I  say  to  you  ?  my 
own  heart  is  lacerated !" 

"  Marian  !  Marian  !  oh  !  what  has  happened  to  Marian  ! 
Oh  1  where  is  Marian  ?" 

"  I  had  hoped  to  find  her  here  after  all !  else  I  had  n?t 
found  courage  to  come  !" 

"  Miss  Thornton,  this  is  cruel — " 

"  Ah !  poor  Edith !  what  you  require  to  be  told  is  far  more 
cruel.  Oh,  Edith !  pray  Heaven  for  fortitude  ?" 

"I  have  fortitude  for  anything  but  suspense.     Oh,  Heaven, 
Miss  Thornton,  relieve  this  suspense,  or  I  shall  suffocate  I" 
41* 


498  •  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

"Edith!  Edith!"  said  the  lady,  going  up  and  putting  her 
arms  around  the  fragile  form  of  the  young  widow,  as  to  shield 
and  support  her.  "  Oh,  Edith !  I  heard  a  report  this  morning 
— and  it  may  be  but  a  report — I  pray  Heaven,  that  it  is  no 
more — " 

"  Oh,  go  on  !  what,  what  was  it  ?" 

"  That,  that  last  evening  on  the  beach  during  the  storm,  Ma- 
rian Mayfield — "  Miss  Thornton's  voice  choked. 

"  Oh,  speak!  for  mercy  speak !     What  of  Marian  ?" 

"  That  Marian  Mayfield  had  been  waylaid,  and — " 

"Murdered!  oh,  God!"  cried  Edith,  as  her  overstraincl 
nerves  relaxed,  and  she  sunk  in  the  arms  of  Miss  Thornton. 

A  child's  wild,  frenzied  shriek  resounded  through  the  house. 
It  was  the  voice  of  Miriam. 

At  Luckenough  that  morning,  the  remains  of  the  unfortunate 
Doctor  Grimshaw  were  laid  out  preparatory  to  burial.  Jac- 
quelina,  in  a  bewildered  stupor  of  remorse,  wandered  vaguely 
from  room  to  room,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none.  "  I  have 
caused  a  fellow  creature's  death !"  That  was  the  envenomed 
thought  that  corroded  her  heart's  centre.  From  her  bosom, 
too,  peace  had  fled.  It  was  near  noon  when  the  news  of  Ma- 
rian's fate  reached  Luckenough,  and  overwhelmed  the  family 
with  consternation  and  grief. 

But  Jacquelina !  the  effect  of  the  tragic  tale  on  her  was 
nearly  fatal.  She  understood  the  catastrophe  as  no  one  else 
could  t  She  knew  who  struck  the  fatal  blow,  and  when,  and 
why,  und  under  what  mistake  it  was  struck !  She  felt  that  an- 
other crime,  another  death  lay  heavy  on  her  soul  1  It  was  too 
much  !  oh  1  it  was  too  much  !  no  human  heart  nor  brain  could 
sustain  the  crushing  burden,  and  the  poor  lost  elf  fell  into 
convulsions  that  threatened  soon  to  terminate  in  death.  Then 
was  no  raving,  no  talking,  in  all  her  frenzy,  the  fatal  secret, 
weighing  on  her  bosom  did  not  then  transpire. 


Before  the  day  was  out  the  whole  county  was  in  an  uproar 


THE   BODY   ON   THE   BEACH.     409 

Never  had  any  event  of  the  neighborhood  created  so  high  an 
excitement  or  so  profound  a  sympathy.  Great  horror  and 
amazement  filled  every  bosom.  A  county  meeting  sponta- 
neously convened,  and  handbills  were  printed,  large  rewards 
offered,  and  every  means  taken  to  secure  the  discovery  of  the 
criminal.  In  the  deep  absorbing  sympathy  for  Marian's  fate, 
the  sudden  death  of  Professor  Grimshaw,  and  the  reasonably-to- 
be-expected  demise  of  old  Mr.  Cloudesley  Willcoxen,  passed 
nearly  unnoticed,  and  were  soon  forgotten.  Among  the  most 
zealous  in  the  pursuit  of  the  unknown  murdei'er,  was  Thurston 
Willcoxen  ;  but  the  ghastly  pallor  of  his  countenance,  the  wild- 
ness  of  his  eyes,  and  the  distraction  of  his  manner,  often  varied 
by  fits  of  deep  and  sullen  despair,  excited  the  surprise  and  con- 
jecture of  all  who  looked  upon  him. 

Days  passed  and  still  no  light  was  thrown  upon  the  mystery. 
About  a  fortnight  after  the  catastrophe,  however,  information 
was  brought  to  the  neighborhood  that  the  corpse  of  a  woman, 
answering  to  the  description  of  Marian,  had  been  washed 
ashore  some  miles  down  the  coast,  but  had  been  interred  by  the 
fishermen,  the  day  after  its  discovery.  Many  gentlemen  hurried 
down  to  the  spot,  and  farther  investigation  confirmed  the  gene- 
ral opinion  that  the  body  was  that  of  the  martyred  girl. 

Three  weeks  after  this,  Edith  lay  upon  her  death-bed  ;  her 
delicate  frame  never  recovei'ed  this  last  great  shock.  A  few 
days  before  her  death  she  called  Miriam  to  her  bedside.  The 
child  approached;  she  was  sadly  altered  within  the  last  few- 
weeks  ;  incessant  weeping  had  dimmed  her  splendid  eyes,  and 
paled  her  brilliant  cheeks. 

"  Sit  down  upon  the  bed  by  me,  my  daughter,"  said  Edith. 

The  child  climbed  up  and  took  the  indicated  seat.  Some- 
thing of  that  long  smothered  fire,  which  had  once  braved  the 
fury  of  the  British  soldiers,  kindled  in  the  dying  woman's  eyes. 

"Miriam,  you  are  nearly  nine  years  old  in  time,  and  much 
older  than  that  in  thought  and  feeling.  Miriam,  your  mother 
has  not  many  days  to  live,  but  in  dying,  she  leaves  you  a  sacred 


500  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

trust  to  be  fulfilled.  My  child,  do  you  follow  and  understand 
me?" 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  Do  not  weep,  tears  are  vain  and  idle.  There  was  an  in- 
jured queen  once  whose  tears  were  turned  to  sparks  of  fire.  So 
I  would  have  yours  to  turn  1  You  know  what  Marian  has 
always  been  to  you,  but,  oh  1  you  do  not  know  all  that  she 
was  to  me  before  you  ever  lived  I  should  have  perished,  far 
from  my  native  land,  in  poverty  and  sorrow,  but  for  Marian. 
She  came  a  stranger  to  me  in  my  extremity,  she  watched  over, 
nursed,  toiled  for  me,  and  when  her  labor  could  not  procure  all 
the  comforts  of  life,  she  sold  her  little  girlish  ornaments  and 
keepsakes  to  get  them  for  me.  By  unremitted  care,  she  raised 
me  at  last  from  a  sick  bed,  and  got  me  into  a  ship,  and 
brought  me  across  the  sea  to  this  my  native  country.  Nor 
here  did  her  tenderness  and  care  slacken  the  least.  While 
those  from  whom  nature  gave  me  the  right  to  expect  aid  and 
sympathy,  withheld  both,  she,  upon  whom  I  had  not  the  slight- 
est claim,  beyond  the  fragile  one  of  common,  human  sisterhood, 
stood  firmly  by  us,  working  for,  comforting,  supporting  me  ;  her 
girlish  head  and  heart  and  hands  willingly  assuming  the  burden 
that  should  have  been  otherwise  borne  by  manhood  and  money. 
You,  Miriam,  must  have  perished  in  your  infancy  but  for  7ter, 
for,  when  Heaven  sent  you  here,  I  was  too  deeply  prostrated  in 
mind  and  body  to  love  you,  or  take  care  of  you  the  least.  But 
she  pitied  the  poor  little  stranger,  and  took  it  to  her  girlish 
bosom,  and  loved  and  nursed  it  with  all  a  mother's  devotion, 
and  more  than  a  mother's  disinterestedness.  You  grew  up  in 
her  arras.  I  sometimes  think  you  loved  her  more  than  you 
love  me — well,  she  deserved  it.  For  oh !  she  was  the  most  dis- 
interested being  that  I  ever  saw.  She  came  among  us  a  young 
stranger  girl,  without  fortune  or  position,  or  any  of  the  usual 
stepping  stones  to  social  consideration.  Yet  see  what  influence, 
what  power  she  soon  obtained,  and  what  reforms  and  improve- 
ments she  soon  effected.  The  county  is  rich  in  the  monuments 
of  her  young  wisdom  and  angelic  goodness.  All  are  indebted 


THE      BODY      ON      THE      BEACH.  ."JOl 

to  her,  but  none  so  deeply  as  you  and  I.  All  are  bound  to 
seek  out  and  punish  her  destroyer,  but  none  so  strongly  as  you 
and  I.  Others  have  pursued  the  search  for  the  murderer  with 
great  zeal  for  awhile  ;  we  must  make  that  search  the  one  great 
object  of  our  lives.  Upon  us  devolve  the  right  and  the  duty  to 
avenge  her  death  by  bringing  her  destroyer  to  the  scaffold — 
Miriam,  do  you  hear — do  you  hear  and  understand  me?" 

"  Yes,  mamma — yes — " 

"  Child,  listen  to  me  !     I  have  a  clue  to  Marian's  murderer." 

Miriam  started,  and  attended  breathlessly. 

"  My  love,  it  was  no  poor  waterman  or  fugitive  negro, 
tempted  by  want  or  cupidity.  It  was  a  gentleman,  Miriam." 

"  A  gentleman  1" 

"  Yes,  one  that  she  must  have  become  acquainted  with  dar- 
ing her  visit  to  Washington  three  years  ago.  Oh  !  T  remember 
her  unaccountable  distress  in  the  months  that  followed  that 
visit!  His  name,  or  his  assumed  name,  was — attend,  Miriam! 
— Thomas  Truman." 

"  Thomas  Truman  1" 

"Yes!  and  while  you  live,  remember  that  name,  until  its 
owner  hangs  upon  the  gallows." 

Miriam  shuddered,  and  hid  her  pale  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Here,"  said  Edith,  taking  a  small  packet  of  letters  from 
under  her  pillow.  "  Here,  Miriam,  is  a  portion  of  her  corres- 
pondence with  this  man,  Thomas  Truman — I  found  it  in  the 
secret  drawer  of  her  bureau.  There  are  several  notes  entreat- 
ing her  to  give  him  a  meeting — on  the  beach,  at  Mossy  Dell, 
and  at  other  points — from  the  tenor  of  these  notes,  I  am  led  to 
believe  that  she  refused  these  meetings — and  more  than  that, 
from  the  style  of  one  in  particular  I  am  induced  to  suppose 
that  she  might  have  been  privately  married  to  that  man.  Why 
he  should  have  enticed  her  to  that  spot  to  destroy  her  life,  I  do 
not  know.  But  this,  at  least,  I  know,  that  our  clearest  Marian 
has  been  basely  assassinated.  I  see  reason  to  suppose  the  as- 
sassin to  have  been  her  lover,  or  her  husband,  and  that  his  rea! 
or  assumed  name  was  Thomas  Truman.  These  facts,  and  this 


502  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

little  packet  of  notes  and  letters,  are  all  that  I  have  to  offer  as 
testimony.  But  by  following  a  slight  clue,  we  are  sometimes 
led  to  great  discoveries." 

"  Why  didn't  you  show  them  to  the  gentlemen,  dear  msroma  ? 
they  might  have  found  out  something  by  them." 

"  I  showed  them  to  Thurston  Willcoxen,  who  has  been  so 
energetic  in  the  pursuit  of  the  unknown  murderer  ;  but  Thnrs- 
ton  became  so  violently  agitated,  that  I  thought  he  must  have 
fallen.  And  he  wished  very  much  to  retain  those  letters,  but 
I  would  not  permit  them  to  be  carried  out  of  my  sight.  When 
he  became  calmer,  however,  he  assured  me  that  there  could  be 
no  possible  connection  between  the  writer  of  these  notes  and 
the  murderer  of  the  unfortunate  girl.  I,  however,  think  differ- 
ently— I  think  there  is  a  connection,  and  even  an  identity  ;  and 
I  think  this  packet  may  be  the  means  of  bringing  the  criminal 
to  justice ;  and  I  leave  it — a  sacred  trust — in  your  charge, 
Miriam.  Guard  it  well !  guard  it  as  your  only  treasure,  until  it 
has  served  its  destined  purpose.  And  now,  Miriam,  do  you 
know  the  nature  of  a  vow  ?" 

"Yes,  mamma?" 

"  Do  you  understand  its  solemnity  ?  its  obligation  ?  its  invio- 
lability ?" 

"I  think  I  do,  mamma." 

"  Do  you  know  that  in  the  performance  of  your  vow,  if  ne- 
cessary, no  toil,  no  privation,  no  suffering  of  mind  or  body,  no 
dearest  interest  of  your  life,  no  strongest  affection  of  your  soul, 
but  must  be  sacrificed — do  you  comprehend  all  this  ?" 

"Yes,  mamma,  I  knew  it  before — and  1  have  read  of  Jcp- 
thah  and  his  daughter." 

"  Now,  Miriam,  kneel  down,  fold  your  hands,  and  give  them 
to  me  between  my  own — look  into  my  eyes.  I  want  you  to 
make  a  vow  to  God  and  to  your  dying  mother,  to  avenge  the 
death  of  Marian.  Will  you  biud  your  soul  by  such  an  obliga- 
tion ?" 

The  child  was  magneti/ed  by  the  thrilling  eyes  that  gazeii 
deep  into  her  own — she  answered, 


THE   BODY   ON   THE   BEACH.      503 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

'•  You  vow  in  the  sight  of  God  and  all  his  holy  angels,  that 
as  you  hope  for  salvation,  you  will  devote  your  life  with  all 
your  faculties  of  mind  and  body,  to  the  discovery  and  punish- 
ment of  Marian's  murderer;  and  also  that  you  will  live  a 
maiden  until  you  become  an  avenger." 

"  I  vow." 

Swear  that  no  afterthought  shall  tempt  you  to  falter — that 
happen  what  may  in  the  changing  years,  you  will  not  hesitate 
— that  though  your  interests  and  affections  should  intervene, 
you  will  not  suffer  them  to  retard  you  in  your  purpose  ;  that  no 
effort,  no  sacrifice,  no  privation,  no  suffering  of  mind  or  body 
shall  be  spared,  if  ueedful,  to  the  accomplishment  of  your 
vow." 

"  I  swear." 

"  You  will  do  it !  You  are  certain  to  discover  the  murderer, 
and  clear  up  the  mystery." 

The  mental  excitement  that  had  carried  Edith  through  this 
scene  subsided,  and  left  her  very  weak,  so  that  when  Thurston 
Willcoxen  soon  after  called  to  see  her,  she  was  unable  to  re- 
ceive him. 

The  next  morning,  however,  Thurston  repeated  his  visit,  and 
was  brought  to  the  bedside  of  the  invalid. 

Thurston  was  frightfully  changed,  the  sufferings  of  the  last 
month  seemed  to  have  made  him  old — his  countenance  was  worn, 
his  voice  hollow,  and  his  manner  abstracted  and  uncertain. 

"Edith,"  he  asked,  as  he  took  the  chair  near  her  head,  "do 
you  feel  stronger  this  morning  ?" 

"  Yes — I  always  do  in  the  forenoon." 

"  Do  you  feel  well  enough  tc  talk  of  Miriam  and  her  future  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"What  have  you  proposed  to  do  with  her?" 

"  I  shall  leave  her  to  Aunt  Henrietta — she  will  never  let  the 
;hild  want." 

"  But  Mrs.  Waugh  is  quite  an  old  lady  now.  Jacquelina  is 
insane,  the  Commodore  and  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  scarcely  competent 


504  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

to  take  care  of  themselves — and  Luekenough  a  sad,  unpromis- 
ing home  for  a  little  girl." 

"I  know  it — oh  !  I  know  it;  why  do  you  speak  of  it,  since 
I  can  do  no  otherwise  ?" 

"  To  point  out  how  you  may  do  otherwise,  dear  Edith.  It 
would  have  been  cruel  to  mention-  it  else." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  surprise  and  inquiry. 

"  Edith,  you  have  known  me  from  my  boyhood.  You  know 
what  I  am.  Will  you  leave  your  orphan  daughter  to  me  ?  You 
look  at  me  in  wonder;  but  listen,  dear  Edith,  and  then  decide. 
Marian — dear  martyred  saint!  loved  that  child  as  her  own. 
And  /  loved  Marian — loved  her  as  I  had  never  deemed  it  pos- 
sible for  heart  to  love — I  cannot  speak  of  this  !  it  deprives  me 
of  reason,"  he  said,  suddenly  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 
while  a  spasm  agitated  his  worn  face.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
resumed. 

"Look  at  me,  Edith!  the  death  of  Marian  has  brought  me 
to  what  you  see !  My  youth  has  melted  away  like  a  morning 
mist.  I  have  not  an  object  in  life  except  to  carry  out  purposes 
which  were  dear  to  her  benevolent  heart,  and  which  her  sudden 
death  has  left  incomplete.  I  have  not  an  affection  in  the  world 
except  that  which  comes  through  her.  I  should  love  this  child 
dearly,  and  cherish  her  devotedly  for  Marian's  sake.  I  shall 
never  change  my  bachelor  life — but  I  should  like  to  legally 
adopt  little  Miriam.  I  should  give  her  the  best  educational 
advantages,  and  make  her  the  co-heir  with  my  young  brother 
Paul  Douglas,  of  all  I  possess.  Say,  Edith,  can  you  trust  your 
child  to  me?"  He  spoke  earnestly,  fervently,  taking  her  hand 
and  pressing  it,  and  gazing  pleadingly  into  her  eyes. 

"  So  you  loved  Marian — I  even  judged  so  when  I  saw  you 
labor  hardest  of  all  for  the  apprehension  of  the  criminal.  Oh, 
ninny  loved  her  as  much  as  you  I  Colonel  Thornton,  Doctor 
Weismann,  Judge  Gordon,  Mr.  Barnwell,  all  adored  her  !  Ah! 
she  was  worthy  of  it  ?" 

"  No  more  of  that,  dear  Edith,  it  will  overcome  us  both  ;  but 
tell  me  if  you  will  give  me  your  little  girl  ?" 


MAKIAJf.  505 

"Dear  Thurston,  your  proposal  is  as  strange  and  unusual  as 
it  is  generous.  I  thank  you  most  sincerely,  but  you  must  give 
me  time  to  look  at  it  and  think  of  it.  You  are  sincere,  you 
are  in  earnest,  you  mean  all  you  say.  I  see  that  in  your  face  ; 
but  I  must  reflect  and  take  counsel  upon  such  an  important  step. 
Go  now,  dear  Thurston,  and  "return  to  me  at  this  hour  to-mor- 
row morning." 

Thurston  pressed  her  hand  and  departed. 

The  same  day  Edith  had  a  visit  from  Mrs.  Waugh,  Miss 
Thornton,  and  other  friends.  And  after  advising  with  them 
upon  the  proposal  that  had  been  made  her,  she  decided  to  leave 
Miriam  in  the  joint  guardianship  of  Mrs.  Waugh  and  Thurston 
Willcoxen. 

And  this  decision  was  made  known  to  Thurston  when  he 
called  the  next  morning. 

A  few  days  after  this  Edith  passed  to  the  world  of  spirits. 
And  Thurston  took  the  orphan  child  to  his  own  heart  and  home 


CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

MARIAN. 

«  WU1  the  maiden  wake  again  t 

— Her  dewy  eyes  are  eloped, 
And  on  their  lids  the  texture  fine 
Scarce  shades  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath, 

And  her  pale  tresses  hide 

The  bosom's  stainless  pride. 

Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless ; 
And  silent  those  Bweet  lips, 
Once  breathing  eloquence." — Shelley. 

WHEN  Marian  awoke  from  the  trnnce-like  swoon  that  laid 
caused  the  supposition  of  her  death,  deep  clouds  were  arourd, 
above,  beneath,  icithin  her. 


506  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

With  no  power  of  recollection,  with  no  power  of  understand- 
ing, scarcely  conscious  of  her  own  identity,  scarcely  conscious 
of  her  existence,  she  lay  helpless  as  a  new-born  infant. 

Shadows  were  about  her  everywhere — shadows  on  the  out- 
ward scene — shadows  on  her  mind,  and  shadows  on  her  heart — 
yes  !  heavier  than  all — upon  her  heart — the  impression  of  some 
dread  loss  and  sorrow,  deep  and  immutable  as  the  grave,  lay 
burdening  her  bosom — what  was  it  ?  she  could  not  tell — nay, 
she  could  not  even  inquire  of  her  memory — so  feeble,  so  uncer- 
tain was  her  vital  action. 

A  square  of  dim  light,  or  rather  of  thinner  darkness,  was  ovei 
her  feet.  She  did  not  know  or  even  wonder  what  it  was  she 
saw ;  a  monotonous  low  surging  sounded  on  her  ear — she  did 
not  know  or  speculate  what  it  was  she  heard;  a  gentle  rocking 
motion  soothed  and  lulled  her — she  did  not  know,  or  care  to 
find  out  what  it  was  she  felt.  Nay,  she  did  not  know  or  seek 
to  know  herself.  Gradually,  very  gradually  came  the  faculty 
of  thought  and  recollection ;  first  she  dimly  remembered  the 
last  hour  in  night  and  storm  upon  the  beach,  when,  as  she 
drew  the  steel  from  her  bosom,  the  scene  had  swam  around  her 
and  disappeared,  carrying  all  consciousness  of  life  away  with  it. 

And  now  this  awakening  ?  Was  it  in  the  spiritual  or  in  the 
material  world  ?  if  in  the  latter — were  these  shadows  the  sha- 
dows of  a  vault  around  her?  She  could  not  tell!  But  no! 
there  was  the  square  of  dim  light  over  her  feet,  and  it  was  di- 
vided off  into  oblong  divisions — it  was  a  window,  an  elevated 
window,  and  the  only  view  it  afforded  was  that  of  a  cloudy 
night  sky.  Where  was  she  ? 

The  monotonous  rocking  and  humming  continued — it  soothed 
her  s~53es  as  the  nurse's  crade-hymn  soothes  the  infant — and 
too  wearied  to  feel  or  think,  Marian  closed  her  eyes  in  slumber, 
and  lost  all  consciousness  until  she  awoke  again. 

She  woke  with  a  rather  clearer  recollection  of  what  had  oc- 
r.irrcd  before  her  fall  upon  the  beach,  yet  with  no  certain  know- 
lodge  of  what  had  happened  since. 

It  was  lighter  around  her  now — the  square  of  light  beyond 


MARIAN.  507 

her  feet,  showed  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  eastern  horizon,  and 
below,  the  opening  stairs  were  dimly  to  be  seen.  She  turned 
her  eyes  around — there  were  berths  each  side  of  the  place — 
there  was  a  bureau  and  a  wash-stand,  yet  they  reeled  and  rocked 
as  she  did. 

A  very  slight  noise  attracted  her  attention — she  turned  her 
eyos  in  the  direction  whence  it  came,  to  the  right  hand  corner 
of  her  bed's  head,  and  there  she  vaguely  perceived  a  lady,  who 
stood  at  a  little  stand  and  seemed  engaged  in  pouring  some- 
thing from  a  vial  into  a  cup.  While  she  watched  this  lady, 
the  latter  turned  around,  and  gently  raising  the  patient's  head, 
put  the  cup  to  her  lips.  Marian  drank  as  a  babe  might  have 
drank,  and  then  sank  back  upon  the  pillow  and  relapsed  into 
sleep. 

And  life  was  blotted  out  for  several  hours. 

Once  more  she  awoke — it  was  now  high  noon.  She  knew 
where  she  was,  now ;  in  the  neat,  well-ordered  cabin  of  a  ves- 
sel ;  the  square  of  light  beyond  her  feet  was  the  window  in  the 
door  at  the  head  of  the  gangway ;  she  saw  through  it  a  por- 
tion of  the  deck  and  the  ropes,  and  the  sea  ahead,  and  the  sky 
beyond.  Yes,  she  was  on  shipboard  ;  but  how  did  she  happen 
to  be  there  ?  She  strove  to  recall  the  past — and  then  again 
came  memory  much  clearer  and  fuller  than  before,  and  wrung  a 
deep  shuddering  groan  from  her  heart ;  and  then  a  sharp,  lace- 
rating pang  struck  through  all  her  chest,  and  caught  away  her 
breath  ;  she  closed  her  eyes,  but  at  the  same  time  felt  a  gentle 
arm  slip  under  her  shoulders  and  raise  her  up,  and  a  cup  placed 
to  her  lips.  It  must  have  contained  some  elixir  at  once  ano- 
dyne, sedative  and  nourishing,  for  as  soon  as  she  had  swallowed 
it.  ir difference  and  repose  came  to  mind  and  body.  While  she 
lay  in  that  state,  another  person  entered  the  cabin,  and  inquired, 

"  How  is  your  patient,  dear  Rachel  ?" 

"Her  wound  troubles  her,  I  think,"  answered  the  sweetest 
voice  Marian  had  ever  heard. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?" 

"  I  am  preparing  a  soothing  application  for  it ;  and  now,  as 
I  am  about  to  dress  it,  you  will  please  to  retire,  dear." 


508  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Soon  after  this,  Marian  felt  a  pair  of  soft  hands  uncover- 
ing  her  bosom.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  bending  over 
her,  the  sweetest  face  she  had  ever  seen — fair,  pale,  and  gentle, 
dark  gray  eyes,  and  smoothly  braided  dark-brown  hair.  Ma- 
rian strove  to  speak,  but  the  effort  started  that  acute  pain  that 
held  her  very  breath  suspended. 

"You  must  not  try  to  speak,  dear — do  not  even  try  to  think; 
you  must  consent  to  be  as  much  like  a  dormouse  as  possible," 
said  the  gentle  lady,  while  her  soft,  soothing  fingers  removed 
the  linen  bandages,  and  bathed  and  dressed  the  wound. 

Marian's  eyes  gazed  pleading!}'  in  her  face. 

"You  are  with  friends,  dear,  who  will  attend  you  faithfully 
until  you  can  be  restored  to  your  family.  In  a  day  or  two  you 
will  be  able  to  direct  our  inquiries.  And  that  you  may  the 
sooner  be  in  a  condition  to  do  so,  you  must  now  be  still  and 
patient,"  said  the  lady. 

Still  that  eager  questioning  gaze  ?  Marian  would  have  given 
the  world  for  the  power  to  ask  one  question — "Where  is 
Thurston  ?"  But  she  could  not;  nay,  the  fear  of  committing 
him,  would  have  held  her  silent.  Her  own  life  assured,  she 
thought  only  of  him,  of  his  safety,  his  liberty,  and  his  honor. 

Strange,  clinging,  deathless  affection ;  immortal  love  that  all 
the  power  of  evil  cannot  kill;  divine  love  that  hate,  and  scorn, 
and  treachery,  and  cruelty,  can  never  move  to  anger  or  revenge — 
can  only  move  to  sorrow  and  compassion,  and  renewed  hope 
and  effort.  It  may  not  be  a  merit — perhaps  nothing  so  invo- 
luntary can  be  a  merit.  Yet  neither  is  it  a  weakness  or  reproach 
— no,  by  its  strength  to  suffer,  to  labor,  to  hope,  and  to  re- 
deem— by  the  sacrifice  on  Calvary,  by  all  that  is  best  and 
strongest  on  earth,  and  in  heaven,  it  is  not  a  weakness  or  a  re- 
proach !  The  soul  gifted  with  such  power  of  pure  loving,  is 
the  medium  of  the  Lord;  it  is  the  Father  of  Love  who  loveth 
through  it. 

In  Marian's  heart  the  thought  of  Thurston  caused  the  pro- 
foundcst  grief  and  pity,  and  while  she  lay  there  speechless 
motionless,  outwardly  calm,  her  inner  life  was  disturbed  by  con- 


MARIAN.  509 

diets  and  struggles  to  which  her  nature  had  hitherto  been  a 
stranger. 

Those  who  have  ever  suffered  high  nervous  fever,  aggravated 
by  grief,  doubt,  or  anxiety — and  who  have  lain  long  days  and 
nights,  cut  off  from  conversation  with  the  outer  world,  know,  at 
such  times,  how  dramatic  becomes  the  inner  life — how  every 
separate  faculty  of  the  mind,  and  every  individual  passion  and 
affection  of  the  heart  takes  a  distinct  personality,  and  what  con- 
flicts they  have — how  many  voices  speak,  and  what  contro- 
versies they  hold.  So  it  was  with  Marian  in  her  illness. 

Heart  and  head — reason  and  affection,  were  at  war  with 
each  other.  The  heart  refused  to  associate  the  idea  of  Thurs- 
tou  with  the  treachery  and  violence  by  which  she  had  suffered. 

"It  is  impossible,  utterly  impossible,  that  he  could  have  sunk 
to  such  a  depth  of  crime — I  do  not  and  cannot  believe  it," 
pleaded  the  heart. 

"  Unhappily,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  belief,  but  of  experience. 
You  know  that  he  was  guilty  of  that  crime ;  your  own  senses 
were  your  witnesses,"  said  the  head. 

"Ah,  but  there  are  some  cases  in  which  we  doubt  the  evi- 
dence of  our  senses,  and  this  is  one.  He  did  not  do  it." 

"Why  should  you  doubt?" 

"  Oh,  his  looks,  his  manner,  his  tone,  his  expression,  all  I 
know  of  him,  contradicts  the  possibility  of  his  doing  such  a 
thing." 

"  Yes,  but  poor  heart,  see  here !  did  you  never  yet  hear  of  a 
fair  face  and  a  foul  soul  ?  Are  hypocrisy,  avarice,  and  cruelty 
new  things  under  the  sun?  Can  you  take  up  a  paper  without 
seeing  a  crime  recorded  ?  And  are  you  astonished  or  doubtful 
then  ?  Poor  heart  1  crime  is  surprising  only  when  it  appears 
in  our  own  sphere.  Besides,  consider  this  young  man's  whole 
conduct  towards  you.  Did  he  not  waylay  your  path,  meeting 
you  whenever  he  could,  following  you,  walking  with  you,  re- 
gardless of  the  detriment  to  your  good  name  ?  Did  he  not 
use  every  art  to  beguile  you  into  a  secret  marriage  ?  Did  he 
not  finally  effect  that  purpose  by  appealing  to  your  affection  io 
32 


510  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

that  sad  parting  hour,  promising  that  if  you  would  consent  to 
have  the  ceremonies  performed,  it  should  be  merely  a  more 
binding  sort  of  betrothal,  until  he  was  prepared  to  acknowledge 
the  marriage  ?  Did  he  keep  that  promise  ?  Did  he  not  use 
every  argument,  persuasion,  and  threat  to  induce  you  to  forego 
fair  fame,  friends,  peace,  all  in  his  favor  ?  Upon  your  steady 
refusal,  did  he  not  wring  you  by  his  long  estrangement  ?  Was 
not  the  whole  of  his  conduct,  from  the  beginning  to  this  point, 
premeditated?  Answer!" 

"Oh!  no,  no,  I  never  believed  it  so.  Hi? conduct  sprung 
fiom  impulse,  not  premeditation." 

"  Undeceive  yourself,  poor  heart ;  after  having  failed  in  his 
plan  to  get  you  off  to  France,  what  happened  ?  Why,  he  gave 
you  up,  and  transferred  all  his  attentions  to  another — a  pretty 
young  heiress,  in  every  way  very  acceptable  to  his  friends." 

"  It  was  only  done  to  pique  me.    It  was  only  a  ruse  of  love !" 

"Ah,  shrinking  heart!  Ah,  shrinking,  cowardly  heart!  sum- 
mon all  your  courage  to  look  on  the  face  of  truth !  When  you 
interfered,  did  he  not  threaten  ?  When  you  spoke  of  divulging 
your  marriage,  did  he  not  taunt  you  with  your  inability  to 
prove  it?" 

"  Oh,  but  that  was  only  to  try  my  faith  and  temper !" 

"Ah,  faint  heart!  faint,  trembling  heart!  nerve  yourself  to 
bear  the  shock  of  hard  facts.  His  engagement  to  Miss  Le  Roy 
was  generally  reported — he  never  contradicted  it.  And  when 
he  found  you  resolved  to  inform  Angelica  of  your  marriage, 
his  whole  conduct  changed — he  displayed  a  conciliatory  temper 
— he  pleaded  with  you  to  give  him  a  meeting  on  the  beach — 
a  prayer  which  you,  oh,  fool  and  blind,  acceded  to.  And  what 
followed  ?  A  meeting — a  little  human  hesitation,  and  then — " 

"Ah,  let  me  not  remember  it!  I  cannot  realize  or  belie>«$ 
in  it." 

"And  yet  you  know  it!  You  knew  the  hand  that  dealt  the 
blow ;  yon  recognized  the  very  instrument  with  which  it  was 
given!  the  xyphias  dagger.  Besides,  who  had  an  interest  in 
your  decease,  unless  he  had  ?  You  had  not  an  enemy  in  tho 


MARIAN.  511 

world.  He  appointed  that  rendezvous— you  kept  it — and  met, 
from  his  hand,  what  had  nearly  been  your  death.  Do  you  still 
doubt  ?" 

"Ye?,  yes,  yes — in  the  face  of  all  that,  I  doubt.'' 

And  so  worked  up  into  fever  by  the  conflict  of  faith  with 
testimony,  and  love  with  reason;  and  suffering,  beneath  all,  an 
under-current  of  great  sorrow,  Marian  rolled  and  tossed  upon 
her  bed  of  mental  and  physical  anguish.  Not  only  once  or 
twice,  but  over  and  over  again,  was  this  internal  controversy 
held.  And  all  these  conflicts  retarded  her  convalescence. 

Day  followed  day,  and  her  strength  was  not  augmented,  nor 
her  power  of  speech  recovered.  With  matchless  charity  and 
patience,  the  lady  called  "  Rachel"  attended  her  bedside.  But 
no  explanation  ensued  between  them.  Thus  several  days  passed 
— how  many,  Marian  did  not  know;  when  one  noon  she  was 
awakened  from  her  sleep  by  the  sudden  cessation  of  that  rolling 
motion  that  had  soothed  her  senses  so  long  a  time,  and  opening 
her  eyes,  she  saw  the  gangway  glimpses  of  a  thicket  of 
masts,  and  farther  on  a  crowded  pier — and  she  knew  the  ves- 
sel had  anchored  in  some  harbor.  While  her  mournful  eyes 
were  fixed  in  sad  inquiry  upon  the  scene,  Rachel  came  with 
pencil  and  paper  in  her  hand,  and  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and 
said,  quietly, 

We  are  in  New  York  harbor,  dear.  This  vessel  sails  for 
Liverpool  in  a  day  or  two.  My  husband  and  myself  go  with 
it ;  but  we  will  first  see  you  in  a  place  of  safety,  well  attended 
and  provided  for,  until  your  friends  can  reach  you.  And  now, 
clear,  tell  me  to  whom  I  shall  write;  here,  take  this  pencil  and 
paper,  and  set  down  the  name  and  place  of  residence." 

Marian  took  the  writing  materials — paused — closed  her  eyes, 
and  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  thought  or  in  prayer,  then  she 
scrawled  a  few  words  on  the  paper,  and  then  her  hand  dropped 
exhausted. 

Rachel  took  up  the  scrap,  and  with  some  difficulty,  ieci- 
phered  the  following  words,  which  she  read  aloud,  to  receive 
further  confirmation  from  the  writer: — 


512  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Take  me  to  Liverpool — I  have  friends  and  money  there- 
it  is  my  native  place." 

"  Is  that  what  you  mean,  dear?" 

Marian  bowed  her  bead.  And  Rachel  took  the  scrap  of 
paper,  and  left  the  cabin.  Soon  she  returned  with  her  hus- 
band, who,  coming  to  the  bedside,  asked, 

"  You  really  wish  to  go  to  Liverpool,  young  lady  ?" 

Marian  bowed  her  head. 

"  You  say  that  you  have  friends  there." 

Marian  bowed  again,  and  made  signs  for  the  pencil  and 
paper — and  when  they  were  given  her,  she  managed  to  scrawl 
two  words, 

"  My  letters  /" 

'"  Oh,  you  want  the  letters  that  were  found  with  you — here 
they  are,"  said  the  lady,  as  soon  as  she  had  read  the  scrap ; 
going  to  a  beanfet  and  bringing  out  the  packet. 

Marian  signed  that  she  should  give  them  to  her  husband, 
and  that  he  should  read  them.  The  reading  occupied  perhaps 
fifteen  minutes,  and  when  it  was  over,  he  said, 

"You  shall  go  to  Liverpool  with  us,  young  lady;  and  we 
will  serve  you  to  the  best  of  our  ability,  until  we  resign  you 
into  the  care  of  your  friends." 

Marian  faintly  bowed  her  thanks. 

"  And  now,  Reuben,  we  must  let  her  rest,  or  her  fever  will 
rise,"  said  Rachel. 

The  gentleman  retired,  and  the  gentle  lady  administered  a 
cooling  sedative  to  her  patient,  and  sat  down  by  the  bed  and 
bathed  her  head  until  she  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast,  when  Rachel  took  her 
place  as  usual  by  the  side  of  the  invalid,  Marian  made  signs  for 
pencil  and  paper,  and  when  they  were  put  in  her  hands,  she 
•arote, 

"  Please  tell  me  how  I  came  on  board  of  this  vessel." 

"  I  fear  the  subject  will  excite  you  too  much,"  said  Rachel, 
when  she  had  read  the  words. 

"  Not  so  much  to  hear  as  to  keep  wondering  about  it," 
wrote  Marian  the  second  time. 


MARIAN  513 

"  In  that  case  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  not  much  to  tell,  dear. 
On  the  evening  of  Holy  Thursday,  about  the  time  the  storm 
arose,  our  vessel  lay  to  opposite  a  place  on  St.  Mary's  coast, 
called  Pine  Bluff,  and  the  mate  put  off  in  a  boat  to  land  a 
passenger;  as  they  neared  the  shore  they  met  another  boat 
rowed  by  two  men,  who  seemed  so  anxious  to  escape  observa- 
tion, as  to  row  away  as  fast  as  they  could  without  answering 
our  boat's  salute.  Our  mate  thought  very  strange  of  it  at  the 
time ;  but  the  mysterious  boat  was  swiftly  hid  in  the  darkness, 
and  our  boat  reached  the  land.  The  mate  and  his  man  had  to 
help  to  carry  the  passenger's  trunks  up  to  the  top  of  the  bluft', 
and  a  short  distance  beyond,  where  a  carriage  was  Kept  waiting 
for  him,  and  after  they  had  parted  from  him,  they  returned 
down  the  bluff  by  a  shorter  though  steeper  way;  and  just  -as 
they  reached  the  beach,  in  the  momentary  lull  ot  the  storm, 
they  heard  groans.  Immediately  the  men  connected  thos** 
sounds  with  the  strange  boat  they  had  seen  row  away,  and 
they  raised  the  wick  in  the  lantern,  and  threw  its  light  around, 
and  soon  discovered  yon  upon  the  sands,  moaning,  though 
nearly  insensible.  They  naturally  concluded  that  you  had 
been  the  victim  of  the  men  in  the  boat,  who  were  probably 
pirates.  Their  first  impulse  was  to  pursue  the  carriage,  and 
get  you  placed  within  it,  and  taken  to  some  farm-house  for 
assistance ;  but  a  moment's  reflection  convinced  them  that  such 
a  plan  was  futile,  as  it  was  impossible  to  overtake  the  carriage. 
There  was  also  no  house  near  the  coast.  They  thought  it 
likely  that  you  were  a  stranger  to  that  part  of  the  country. 
.And  in  the  hurry  and  agitation  of  the  moment,  they  could 
devise  nothing  better  than  to  put  you  in  the  boat,  and  bring 
you  on  board  this  vessel.  That  is  the  way  you  came  here," 
concluded  the  gentle  woman,  refraining  from  expressing  any 
curiosity,  or  asking  any  question,  lest  it  might  disturb  her 
patient. 

The  grateful  gaze  of  Marian  thanked  her,  as  she  held  out  her 
nand  for  the  pencil,  and  wrote, 

"  Tell  me  the  name  of  my  angel  nurse." 


-r>14  THE      M  I  S  S  I  X  3      BRIDE. 

"  Rachel  Holmes,"  answered  the  lady,  blushing  gently.  "  My 
husband  is  a  surgeon  in  the  United  States  array.  He  is  on 
leave  of  absence  now  for  the  purpose  of  taking  me  home  to  see 
my  father  and  mother — they  live  in  London.  I  am  of  English 
parentage." 

Marian  feebly  pressed  her  hand,  and  then  irregularly  traced 
these  words, 

"  You  are  very  good  to  ask  me  no  questions,  and  I  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart;  for,  dear  lady,  I  can  tell  you  nothing," 
and  having  written  them,  her  hand  dropped  powerless  upon  the 
bed — for  she  was  entirely  exhausted  by  this  short  conference. 

The  next  day  the  vessel  sailed  with  the  first  tide  for  Liverpool. 

Marian  slowly  improved.  Her  purposes  were  not  very  clear 
or  strong  yet — mental  and  physical  suffering  and  exhaustion 
had  temporarily  weakened  and  obscured  her  mind.  Her  one 
strong  impulse  was  to  escape,  to  get  away  from  the  scenes  of 
such  painful  associations  and  memories,  and  to  go  home,  to 
take  refuge  in  her  own  native  land.  The  thought  of  returning 
to  Maryland,  to  meet  the  astonishment,  the  wonder,  the  con- 
jectures, the  inquiries,  and  perhaps  the  legal  investigation  that 
might  lead  to  the  exposure  and  punishment  of  Thurston,  was 
insupportable  to  her  heart.  No,  no !  rather  let  the  width  of 
the  ocean  divide  her  from  all  those  horrors.  Undoubtedly  her 
friends  believed  her  dead — let  it  be  so — let  her  remain  as  dead 
to  them.  She  should  leave  no  kindred  behind  her,  to  suffer  by 
her  loss — should  wrong  no  human  being.  True,  there  were 
Miriam  and  Edith !  But  that  her  heart  was  exhausted  by  its 
one  great,  all-consuming  grief,  it  must  have  bled  for  them  1 
Yet  they  had  already  suffered  all  they  could  possibly  suffer 
from  the  supposition  of  her  death — it  was  now  three  weeks 
since  they  had  reason  to  believe  her  dead,  and  doubtless  kind 
Nature  had  already  nursed  them  into  resignation  and  calmness, 
that  would  in  time  become  cheerfulness.  If  she  should  go 
back,  there  would  be  the  shock,  the  amazement,  the  questions, 
the  prosecutions,  perhaps  the  conviction,  and  the  sentence,  and 
the  horrors  of  a  state  prison  for  one,  the  least  hair  of  wnose 


MARIAN.  515 

head  she  could  not  willingly  hurt;  and  then  her  own  early 
death,  or  should  she  survive,  her  blighted  life.  Could  these 
consequences  console  or  benefit  Edith  or  Miriam  ?  No,  no, 
they  would  augment  grief.  It  was  better  to  leave  things  as 
they  were — better  to  remain  dead  to  them — a  dead  sorrow 
might  be  forgotten — a  living  one  never!  For  herself,  it  was 
better  to  take  fate  as  she  found  it — to  go  home  to  England, 
and  devote  her  newly  restored  life,  and  her  newly  acquired 
fortune,  to  those  benevolent  objects  that  had  so  lately  occupied 
so  large  a  share  of  her  heart.  Some  means  also  should  be 
found — when  she  should  grow  stronger,  and  her  poor  head 
should  be  clearer,  so  that  she  should  be  able  to  think — to  make 
Edith  and  Miriam  the  recipients  of  all  the  benefit  her  wealth 
could  possibly  confer  upon  them.  And  so  in  recollecting, 
meditating,  planning,  and  trying  to  reason  correctly,  and  to 
understand  her  embarrassed  position,  and  her  difficult  duty, 
passed  the  days  of  her  convalescence.  As  her  mind  cleared, 
the  thought  of  Angelica  began  to  give  her  uneasiness — she 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  leaving  that  young  lady  exposed  to 
the  misfortune  of  becoming  Thurston's  wife — and  her  mind 
toiled  with  the  difficult  problem  of  how  to  shield  Angelica 
without  exposing  Thurston. 

A  few  days  after  this,  when  Marian  had  recovered  the  power 
of  speech,  she  related  to  her  kind  friends  all  of  her  personal 
history  that  she  could  impart,  without  compromising  the  safety 
of  others  :  and  she  required  and  received  from  them  the  pro- 
mise of  their  future  silence  in  regard  to  her  fate. 

As  they  approached  the  shores  of  England,  Marian  improved 
so  fast  as  to  be  able  to  go  on  deck.  And  though  extremely 
pale  and  thin,  she  could  no  longer  be  considered  an  invalid, 
when,  on  the  thirtieth  day  out,  their  ship  entered  the  mouth  ot 
the  Mersey.  Upon  their  arrival  at  Liverpool,  it  had  been  the 
intention  of  Doctor  Holmes  and  his  wife  to  proceed  to  London  ; 
but  now  they  decided  to  delay  a  few  hours  until  they  should 
see  Marian  safe  in  the  house  of  her  friends.  The  Reverend 
Theodore  Barney  was  a  retired  dissenting  clergyman,  living  on 


51G  THE      MISSING      BIlIDE. 

his  modest  patrimony  iu  a  country  house  a  few  miles  out  of 
Liverpool,  and  now  at  eighty  years  enjoying  a  hale  old  age. 
Doctor  Holmes  took  a  chaise  and  carried  Marian  and  Rachel 
out  to  the  place.  The  house  was  nearly  overgrown  with  climb- 
jug'  vines,  and  the  grounds  were  beautiful  with  the  early  spring 
verdure  and  flowers.  The  old  man  was  overjoyed  to  meet 
Marian,  and  he  received  her  with  a  father's  welcome.  He 
thanked  her  friends  for  their  care  and  attention,  and  pressed 
them  to  come  and  stay  several  days  or  weeks.  But  Doctor 
Holmes  and  Rachel  simply  explained  that  their  visit  was  to 
their  parents  in  London,  which  city  they  were  very  anxious  to 
reach  as  soon  as  possible,  and,  thanking  their  host,  they  took 
leave  of  him,  of  his  old  wife,  and  Marian,  and  departed. 

The  old  minister  looked  hard  at  Marian. 

"  You  are  pale,  my  dear.  Well,  I  always  heard  that  our 
fresh  island  roses  wifliered  in  the  dry  heat  of  the  American 
climate,  and  now  I  know  it !  But  come  !  we  shall  soon  see  a 
change  and  what  wonders  native  air  and  native  manners  and 
morning  walks  will  work  in  the  way  of  restoring  bloom." 

Marian  did  not  feel  bound  to  reply,  and  her  ill  health  re- 
mained charged  to  the  account  of  our  unlucky  atmosphere. 

The  next  morning,  the  old  gentleman  took  Marian  into  his 
library,  told  her  once  more  hew  very  little  surprised,  and  how 
very  glad  he  was  that  instead  of  writing,  she  had  come  in  per- 
son. He  then  made  her  acquainted  with  certain  documents, 
and  informed  her  that  it  would  be  necessary  she  should  go  up 
to  London,  and  advised  her  to  do  so  just  as  soon  as  she  should 
feel  herself  sufficiently  rested.  Marian  declared  herself  to  be 
already  recovered  of  fatigue,  and  anxious  to  proceed  with  the 
business  of  settlement.  Their  journey  was  thereupon  fixed  for 
1he  second  day  from  that  time.  And  upon  the  appointed 
morning,  Marian,  attended  by  the  old  clergyman,  set  out  for 
the  mammoth  capital,  where,  in  due  season,  they  arrived.  A 
few  days  were  busily  occupied  amid  the  lumber  of  law  docu- 
ments, before  Marian  felt  sufficiently  at  ease  to  advise  her 
friends,  the  Holmcses.  of  her  presence  in  town.  Only  a  few 


NEW      LIFE.  51T 

hours  had  elapsed,  after  reading  her  note  and  address,  befoie 
she  received  a  call  from  Mrs.  Holmes  and  her  father,  Doctor 
Coleman,  a  clergyman  of  high  standing  in  the  Church  of  England. 
Friendliness  and  a  beautiful  simplicity  characterised  the  man- 
ners of  both  fatLer  and  daughter.  Rachel  entreated  Marian  to 
return  with  her  and  make  her  father's  house  her  home  while  in 
London.  She  spoke  with  an  affectionate  sincerity  that  Marian 
could  neither  doubt  nor  resist,  and  when  Dr.  Coleman  cordially 
seconded  his  daughter's  intention,  Marian  gratefully  accepted 
the  proffered  hospitality.  And  the  same  day  Mr.  Burney  bade 
a  temporary  farewell  to  his  favorite,  and  departed  for  Liver- 
pool, and  Marian  accompanied  her  friend  Rachel  Holmes  to 
the  house  of  Dr.  Coleman. 


CHAPTER    XXXYIII. 

NEW       LIFE. 

"Live!  for  some  high  and  holy  work  of  love, 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shall  know, 
Shall  bless  the  earth,  while  in  the  world  above 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  go 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  ever  wider  flow. — Carlos  Wikox. 

MARIAX  had  many  worthy  reasons  for  wishing  to  cultivate 
the  acquaintance  and  friendship  of  Dr.  Coleman.  The  first 
of  which  was  that  she  desired  to  consult  him  upon  the  subject 
of  her  beneficent  purposes,  and  to  have  the  aid  of  his  greater 
experience  aiid  wisdom  to  guide  her  in  the  application  of  means 
*X)  ends.  When  one  morning  in  his  library,  Marian  presented 
the  subject  to  the  doctor,  that  reverend  gentleman  was  greatly 
surprised  that  a  lady  so  young  and  beautiful,  one  without  the 
least  bit  of  fanaticism  whatever,  should  simply  resolve  to  devote 
her  life  and  wealth  to  the  unfortunate.  He  could  scarcely  for- 


518  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

bear  from  expressing  his  amazement,  and  he  could  not  refrain 
from  expostulation.  But  Marian  gravely  and  gently  waived 
his  objections  aside,  saying, 

"Circumstances  against  which  I  have  no  longer  the  slightest 
inclination  to  contend,  have  cut  me  off  from  intimate  family 
relations  with  others,  and  have  at  the  same  time  placed  at  my  dis- 
posal a  large  fortune.  I  regard  these  events,  perhaps  I  should 
say  these  coincidences,  as  providential.  They  interpret  to  me 
all  my  earliest  yearnings  and  aspirations,  and  point  out  their 
destination.  From  earliest  infancy  I  have  felt  the  profoundest 
sympathy  with  destitute  children;  yes,  even  from  the  age  of  three 
years,  when  I  first  noticed  the  difference  between  my  own 
cherished  and  sheltered  lot,  and  the  neglected  and  exposed  con- 
dition of  the  little  beggar  in  the  street,  and  wondered  why  such 
contrasts  should  exist,  my  heart,  from  its  depths,  has  responded 
to  the  suffering  looks  or  cries  of  the  little  children.  As  I 
grew  older,  and  began  to  observe,  and  to  reflect  upon  the  many 
bchemes  of  philanthropy  active  in  the  world,  and  see  how  one 
would  aim  at  converting  the  heathen  of  the  antipodes,  another 
at  redeeming  criminals,  a  third  at  abolishing  capital  punish- 
ment, a  fourth  at  reforming  prisons,  a  fifth  at  exterminating 
war,  and  so  on  forever; — and  when  I  perceived  in  all  these 
enterprises,  good  as  they  undoubtedly  are,  how  miserably  inade- 
quate to  the  cost  is  the  return,  I  could  but  think  of  the  nearer, 
and  more  promising  field  of  benevolence  that  lay  immediately 
around  us,  of  the  little,  neglected  children  of  the  poor,  the  igno- 
rant, and  the  vicious ;  the  little  children  perishing  around  our  very 
door-sills,  or  worse  than  perishing,  growing  up  to  filially  become 
as  miserable  as  their  wretched  parents.  And  then  it  seemed  to 
me  tha*>  the  relief  and  education  of  destitute  children  was  a 
nearer,  more  urgent,  and  more  hopeful  duty,  and  one  that,  for 
labor  and  capital  expended  upon  it,  would  yield  a  greater  return 
m  good  than  any  other  scheme  of  beneficence  whatever.  And  I 
wondered  how  philanthropists,  with  necessarily  limited  means, 
should  devote  time  and  money  to  the  civilizing  of  savages,  and 
the  reforming  of  criminals,  while  hundreds  of  innocent  chi!'-1  s 


NEW       LIFE.  519 

around  them  were  perishing  from  want,  or  growing  up  in 
ignorance  or  vice.  Prevention  is  so  much  better  than  cure,  that 
it  seems  to  me  bad  economy,  to  spend  upon  the  doubtful  event 
of  civilizing  a  savage,  or  reforming  a  burglar,  the  means  that 
might  be  devoted  to  educating  and  preserving  the  innocence  of  a 
child." 

"And  yet,"  said  the  pastor,  mildly,  "criminals  are  also  to  be 
pitied,  and,  if  possible,  saved.  They  were  once  innocent  chil- 
dren— they  are  very  often  the  victims  of  circumstances,  rather 
than  subjects  of  willful  depravity — and  should  have  some  share 
in  the  compassion  of  your  heart." 

"And  they  have,"  said  Marian,  gravely;  "but  while  my 
power  is  limited,  and  while  one  little  child  within  my  reach  re- 
mains unfed,  unclothed,  untaught,  I  can  give  the  criminal  only 
compassion.  Shall  I  'take  the  children's  bread  and  cast  it  to 
the  dogs  ?' " 

"  That  is  a  severe  application  of  the  text  to  come  from  a 
woman's  gentle  lips." 

"  I  know  it  is  severe,  but  it  is  just  and  appropriate.  Children 
have  the  greatest  claim  upon  us  while  they  have  need,  and  we 
have  power.  Let  me  proceed  with  telling  you  my  reasons  for 
thinking  so.  CHRIST  left  them  a  perpetual  legacy  to  us — 
'Whoso  shall  receive  one  such  little  child  in  My  name  receiveth 
Me.'  Could  there  be  a  stronger  or  more  affecting  recommenda- 
tion of  the  children  to  our  mercy  ?  Destitute  children,  by  their 
innocence,  their  helplessness,  their  suffering,  and  the  bright  or 
dark  possibilities  latent  in  their  undeveloped  natures,  and  in  their 
unknown  futures,  appeal  equally  to  our  sympathy  and  our  po- 
licy. Again,  children  are  not,  as  adults  are,  accountable  for 
their  own  destitution.  They  have  not,  as  adults  have,  a  great 
deal  to  Mttlearn.  Their  minds  and  hearts  are  like  fair  pages, 
unwritten  with  the  annals  of  crime,  but  ready  to  receive  the 
impression  of  good  principles.  Or  they  are  like  the  rich  open 
prairie  lands  of  America — no  cutting  down,  rooting  up,  and 
clearing  to  be  done — they  are  all  ready  for  cultivation,  and 
will  richly  repay  the  cultivator." 


520  THE       MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  My  dear  girl,  have  you  never  heard  of  'juvenile  depravity  ?'*? 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  'juvenile' — let  me  separate  such 
words  by  at  least  a  dozen  others — 'depravity.'  Such  a  phrase 
sounds  to  me  false,  cruel,  and  calumnious,  or  would  do  so,  were 
it  not  so  contradictory  as  to  be  nonsensical.  Children  are  never 
depraved.  A  child's  habits,  received  from  his  only  guides, 
vicious  associates,  may  be  bad  enough,  but  they  are  bad  habits 
just  as  his  poor  little  dirty  jacket,  and  his  poor  little  ragged 
trowsers  are  bad  habits — they  are  not  a  part  of  him,  they  did 
not  grow  out  of  him,  they  are  external  to  him,  they  were  put 
upon  him;  he  does  not  know  where  to  get  any  better.  Only 
provide  him  with  clean  clothes,  and  show  him  clean  behaviour, 
and  see  if  he  does  not  prefer  them.  But  to  resume  the  thread 
of  my  argument — Lastly,  the  good  commenced  in  the  intellec- 
tual and  religious  culture  of  children  must  go  on  forever,  must 
produce  and  reproduce  good  fruits  eternally.  I  do  not  wish  to 
say  one  word  against  other  forms  of  benevolence — they  are  all 
good — only  this  is  best.  It  is  well,  if  possible,  to  reform  a  cri- 
minal, but  there,  most  likely,  the  good  ends.  But  if  you  edu- 
cate a  child,  you  may  benefit  in  after  times  his  children,  and  his 
children's  children,  down  countless  generations.  There  is  no 
calculating  the  good  that  may  flow  on  forever  from  one  well 
developed  human  soul.  This  view  addresses  itself  to  our  judi- 
cious economy  in  the  application  of  means  to  ends,  and  to  secure 
the  greatest  return  of  good  from  limited  power  of  labor  and 
money.  Very  early  in  life  I  felt  this.  In  my  first  youth,  the 
Lord  entrusted  me  with  but  one  talent — leisure — and  I  invested 
it  in  the  teaching  of  poor  children — and  it  paid  a  large  interest 
—more  than  cent,  per  cent.,  I  assure  you,  and  the  interest  is 
still  going  on,  and  must  forever  go  on,  at  compound  rate.  2fow 
the  Lord  has  lent  me  two  talents — time  and  money — and  I  wish 
to  invest  them  in  the  same  profitable  enterprise." 

But  we  may  not  pause  to  trace  minutely  those  labors  of  love 
in  which  Marian  sought  at  once  to  forget  her  own  existence  and 
to  bless  that  of  others. 


NEW      LIFE.  521 

A  few  events  only  it  will  be  necessary  to  record. 

In  the  very  first  packet  of  Baltimore  papers  received  by  Dr. 
Holmes,  Marian  saw  announced  the  marriage  of  Angelica  Le 
Roy,  to  Henry  Barn  well.  She  knew  by  the  date,  that  it  took  place 
within  two  weeks  after  she  sailed  from  the  shores  of  America. 
And  her  anxiety  on  that  young  lady's  account  was  set  at  rest. 

After  a  visit  of  two  months,  Dr.  Holmes  and  his  lovely  wife 
prepared  to  return  to  the  United  States.  And  the  little  for- 
tune that  Marian  intended  to  settle  upon  Edith  and  Miriam, 
was  entrusted  to  the  care  of  the  worthy  surgeon,  to  be  invested 
in  bank  stock  for  their  benefit,  as  soon  as  he  should  reach  Bal- 
timore. It  was  arranged  that  the  donor  should  remain  anony- 
mous, or  be  known  only  as  a  friend  of  Miriam's  father. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  months,  Marian's  institution,  "  The 
Children's  Home,"  was  commenced.  And  before  the  end  of 
the  first  year,  it  was  completed  and  filled  with  inmates.  Marian 
had  at  first  discreetly  limited  the  number  to  be  received  to  the 
capacities  of  accommodation  afforded  by  her  house.  But  could 
she  so  limit  the  expansion  of  her  own  benevolent  heart  ?  Could 
she  turn  back  the  houseless  little  ones  that  wanted  to  come  in  ? 
No  !  never — and  it  happened,  of  course,  that  as  month  followed 
month,  and  her  "  Children's  Home  "  thrived,  and  more  applica- 
tions for  shelter  there  pressed  upon  her,  that  her  house  had  to 
be  enlarged,  and  its  income  increased,  and  more  and  more  of 
her  reserved  private  fortune  appropriated  to  meet  expenses, 
until  her  whole  estate  was  embarked  in  the  benevolent  enter- 
prize,  and  she  had  'nothing  left  but  a  home  among  her  own 
little  flock.  And  Marian  did  not  regret  this  as  long  as  the  in- 
come met  the  outlay. 

But  the  demands  of  her  heart,  to  be  farther  useful  among  the 
unfortunate,  were  not  satisfied.  Her  sympathies  were  awak- 
ened, and  her  thoughts  employed  for  another  class  of  sufferers 
— the  industrious  poor  of  the  overpeopled  country,  starving  in 
enforced  idleness.  And  her  mind  involuntarily  associated  with 
them  the  vast,  uninhabited,  fertile  tracts  of  land  in  western 
America.  She  saw  these  two  groups  of  facts,  as  surely  re- 
43* 


522  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

lated  to  each  other  as  demand  and  supply,  or  as  disfe«v«$e  and 
remedy.  The  poor,  miserable  men  and  women  of  the  old  world, 
perishing  around  her  for  want  of  food,  or  the  work  that  -vould 
win  it — and  the  broad,  rich  prairies  of  the  new  world  lying 
idle,  waiting  to  repay  labor  and  cultivation  with  health,  compe- 
tence and  independence  to  the  laborer  and  cultivator — two  things 
morally  related,  but  actually  separated.  Day  and  night  toiled 
Marian's  heart  and  brain,  with  the  problem  of  how  to  bring 
these  two  powers  together  for  mutual  advantage.  True,  she 
knew  that  there  were  colonization  companies  and  emigrant 
ships,  (as  she  had  also  known  when  planning  for  the  relief  01 
destitute  children,  that  there  were  Orphan  Asylums,)  but  they 
did  not  seem  to  meet  the  case. 

It  was  a  doubtful  good  to  pick  up  a  cargo  of  human  beings, 
as  motely  as  Falstaff's  regiment,  made  up  equally  of  criminals 
and  paupers,  and  cast  them  strangers  and  penniless  upon  a 
foreign  shore — leaving  them  to  wander  about  seeking  work, 
begging  or  stealing,  through  the  Atlantic  cities,  with  not  much 
better  opportunities  of  improvement  than  they  left  behind.  No  ; 
the  great  uninhabited  tracts  of  the  West — the  rich  prairie  lands, 
the  forests  with  their  game,  no  "lord"  or  "gentleman"  might 
"  preserve,"  the  lakes  and  streams  with  their  fisheries  unincor- 
porated ;  this  was  the  "promised  land"  for  the  landless — the 
hope  of  the  laborer  1 

Day  and  night  her  heart  burned  and  her  head  planned.  Oh 
for  the  means  of  bringing  these  two  related  forces  together. 
Had  she  possessed  the  fortune  of  the  Baron  Rothschild,  she 
would  have  gladly  devoted  it  to  the  purpose  of  settling  the 
industrious  suffering  poor  of  over-populated  England  upon  the 
uninhabited  rich  territories  of  the  West.  She  now  regarded 
America  as  God's  beneficent  gift  to  the  poor  and  oppressed  of 
Europe.  Oh !  for  the  means  of  helping  these  poor  to  their 
land  of  promise.  Day  and  night  heart  and  brain  worked  with 
this  problem.  From  herself  she  could  do  nothing ;  her  own 
means  were  all  exhausted  upon  the  children  ;  she  had  reserved 
nothing — her  very  clothing  was  of  that  inexpensive  material 
provided  for  the  children's  wear. 


NEW      LIFE.  523 

Bat  Marian  knew  that  the  most  circumscribed  action  was 
better  than  mere  fruitless  theorizing,  and  she  resolved  to  begin 
and  do  something,  if  it  were  for  the  relief  of  only  a  few  families. 
Her  acquaintance  among  the  benevolent  portion  of  the  wealthy 
and  influential  was  considerable. 

Her  field  of  influence  was  extended  and  changed.  She  had 
now  not  only  to  labor  for-the  good  of  others,  but  to  labor  upon 
the  hearts  and  minds  of  others.  I  have  before  pj^entionec 
Marian's  irresistible  powers  of  persuasion — that, combined  elo- 
quence of  soul  and  eye  and  lip  that  no  one  could  withstand  ; 
that  matchless  "  spell  o'er  hearts,"  composed  of  beauty,  genius, 
goodness,  and  indomitable  will.  The  idea  of  a  lady,  young, 
beautiful,  and  gifted,  devoting  her  whole  life  to  purposes  so 
disinterested  and  benevolent,  could  not  but  appeal  powerfully 
to  the  co-operation  of  the  good,  the  wise,  and  the  strong  around 
her.  She  left  no  means  untried  to  effect  the  object  she  had  in 
view,  and  her  efforts  were  in  time  rewarded  with  a  fair  prospect 
of  success. 

But  was  Marian  content  ?  Did  she  realize  the  promised 
"  angel's"  happiness  ?  She  lived  two  lives — the  actual  life  of 
thought  and  labor  for  others,  and  the  inner  life  of  sorrow ; 
patient,  silent,  veiled  sorrow — sorrow  that  she  must  bear  alone. 
Thus  when  she  suffered  herself  to  relapse  into  reverie  and  recol- 
lection, her  sufferings  were  almost  insupportable ;  alone,  un- 
loved, and  filled  with  the  memories  of  bitter  wrongs,  how  could 
it  be  otherwise  ? 

And  when,  with  a  strong  effort  of  will,  she  threw  herself 
with  all  her  force  into  works  of  humanity  and  benevolence, 
then — was  she  happy  ? 

But  we  must  leave  her  for  the  present,  and  revisit  Thurston. 


PART     FIFTH. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

THURSTON. 

"  Who  by  rcpontance  i.<=  not  satisfied, 
Is  not  of  Heaven  uor  earth." — Shakspeare. 

AFTER  a  stormy  passage  in  life  comes  a  long  calm,  preceding 
r  M-haps  another  storm.  I  must  pass  rapidly  over  several  years. 

Thurston  was  a  new  being.  Some  Christians  will  tell  you 
that  the  new  birth  is  the  event  of  a  moment;  others,  that  it  is 
the  labor  of  years.  Doubtless  both  speak  truly  of  their  own 
experiences.  In  some,  regeneration  is  a  slow  reform  ;  in  others, 
it  is  a  sudden  revolution.  With  Thurston  it  was  both  a  violent 
revolution  and  a  permanent  reform.  The  catastrophe  plucked 
down  by  his  own  rash  hand  upon  the  head  dearest  to  him  iu 
life ;  the  catastrophe  that  had  bereaved  him  of  his  idol  at  the 
very  moment  and  by  the  very  means  he  had  treacherously  taken 
to  secure  her;  had,  as  by  a  thunder-shock,  roused  him  to  a 
sense  of  what  he  was,  what  he  did,  and  what  he  was  fast  becom- 
ing. His  nature  was  revolutionized.  And  then  ensued  the 
wild  anarchy  that  follows  such  convulsions,  whether  of  the  in- 
dividual soul,  or  of  the  national  commonwealth;  until  it  settles 
down  npon  a  reformed  basis.  In  the  confusion  that  reigned  in 
his  bosom,  many  clamorous  voices  were  heard  ;  there  was  bitter 
grief  that  would  not  be  silent,  but  wailed  forth  lamentations 
forever ;  there  was  remorse  that  never  slumbered,  but  groaned 
in  deep  self-reproaches  and  threats  day  and  night.  Hope  tried 
(524) 


THURSTON.  525 

to  make  her  voice  heard,  and  to  speak  of  a  nearly  impossible 
fortuity.  But  despair  silenced  her  by  pointing  out  the  facts. 

It  was  after  some  time,  and  with  much  difficulty,  that  the 
WILL  struggled  up  through  all  this  anarchy,  and  gained  the 
ascendency  and  subdued  the  storm,  and  restored  quiet  and 
order.  And  then,  though  weary  and  fainting  with  its  toils,  the 
Boul  saw  its  way  clearly  to  its  course  and  end. 

It  was  not  to  sit  down  supinely  and  indulge  a  fruitless  sorrow 
atid  a  remorse  as  selfish  as  his  sin  had  been.  It  was  to  retrieve 
the  past,  to  redeem  his  soul,  and  to  labor  for  the  good  of  others. 

And  how  many  there  were  to  be  worked  for.  He  resolved 
to  devote  his  time,  talents  and  means,  first  of  all  to  carrying  on 
and  perfecting  those  works  of  education  and  reform  started  by 
Marian  in  his  own  neighborhood. 

But  this  was  a  very  mournful  consolation,  for  in  every  thought 
and  act  of  the  whole  work,  the  memory  of  Marian  was  so  inti- 
mately woven,  that  her  loss  was  felt  with  double  keenness. 
Every  effort  was  doubly  difficult;  every  obstacle  was  doubly 
great ;  every  discouragement  doubly  hopeless,  because  she  was 
not  there  with  her  very  presence  inspiring  hope  and  energy — • 
and  every  success  was  robbed  of  its  joy,  because  she  was  not 
there  to  rejoice  with  him.  He  missed  her  in  all  things ;  he 
missed  her  everywhere.  Solitude  had  fallen  upon  all  the  earth 
from  which  she  had  passed  away.  Because  her  face  was  gone, 
all  other  faces  were  repulsive  to  his  sight ;  because  her  voice 
was  silent,  all  other  voices  were  discordant  to  his  ear ;  because 
her  love  was  impossible,  all  other  friendships  and  affections 
were  repugnant  to  his  heart;  and  Thurston,  young,  handsome, 
accomplished  and  wealthy,  became  a  silent  and  lonely  man. 

The  estate  left  by  old  Cloudesley  Willcoxen  had  exceeded 
even  the  reports  of  his  hoarded  wealth.  The  whole  estate,  real 
and  personal,  was  bequeathed  to  his  eldest  grandson,  Thurston 
Willcoxen,  upon  the  sole  condition  that  it  should  not  be 
divided. 

Dell-Delight,  with  its  natural  beauties,  was  a  home  that 
wealth  could  convert  into  a  material  paradise.  Once  it  Lad 


526  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

been  one  of  Thurston's  happiest  dreams  to  adorn  and  beautify 
the  matchless  spot,  and  make  it  worthy  of  Marian,  its  intended 
mistress.  Now  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  those  plans  of 
home-beauty  and  happiness  so  interwoven  with  fond  thoughts 
of  her.  So  poignant  were  the  wounds  of  association,  that  he 
could  scarcely  endure  to  remain  in  a  neighborhood  so  filled 
with  reminiscences  of  her  ;  and  he  must  have  fled  the  scene,  and 
taken  refuge  from  memory  in  foreign  travel,  had  he  suffered 
from  bereavement  and  sorrow  only ;  but  he  was  tortured  by 
remorse,  and  remorse  demands  to  suffer  and  to  atone  for  sin. 
And,  therefore,  though  it  spiritually  seemed  like  being  bound 
to  a  wheel  and  broken  by  its  every  turn,  he  was  true  to  his 
resolution  to  remain  in  the  county  and  devote  his  time,  wealth, 
and  abilities  to  the  completion  of  Marian's  unfinished  works 
of  benevolence. 

Dell-Delight  remained  unaltered.  He  could  not  bear  to  make 
;t  beautiful,  since  Marian  could  not  enjoy  its  beauty.  Only  such 
changes  were  made  as  were  absolutely  necessary  in  organizing 
his  little  household.  A  distant  relative,  a  middle-aged  lady  of 
exemplary  piety,  but  of  reduced  fortune,  was  engaged  to  come 
and  preside  at  his  table,  and  take  charge  of  Miriam's  education, 
for  Miriam  was  established  at  Dell-Delight.  It  is  true  that 
Mrs.  Waugh  would  have  wished  this  arrangement  otherwise. 
She  would  have  preferred  to  have  the  orphan  girl  with  herself; 
but  Commodore  Waugh  would  not  even  hear  of  Miriam's  coin- 
ing to  Luckenqugh  with  any  patience — "For  if  her  mother  had 
married  Griin',  none  of  these  misfortunes  would  have  happened," 
he  said. 

Even  Jacquelina  had  been  forced  to  fly  from  Lnckcnough  ; 
ro  one  knew  whither  ;  some  said  that  she  had  run  away ;  some 
knew  that  she  had  retired  to  a  convent;  some  said  only  to 
escape  the  din  and  turmoil  of  the  world,  and  find  rest  to  her 
soul  in  a  few  months  or  years  of  quiet  and  silence,  and  some 
said  she  had  withdrawn  for  the  purpose  of  taking  the  vows  and 
becoming  a  nun.  Mrs.  Wangh  knew  all  about  it,  but  she  said 
nothing  except  to  discourage  inquiry  upon  the  subject.  In  the 


THURSTOX.  527 

midst  of  the  speculation  following  Jacquelina's  disappearance, 
Cloudesley  Mornington  had  come  home.  He  staid  a  day  or 
two  at  Luckenough,  a  week  at  Dell-Delight,  and  then  took  him- 
self, with  his  broken  heart,  off  from  the  neighborhood,  and  got 
ordered  upon  a  distant  and  active  service. 

There  were  also  other  considerations  that  rendered  it  desirable 
for  Miriam  to  reside  at  Dell-Delight,  rather  than  at  Luckenough , 
Commodore  Waugh  would  have  made  a  terrible  guardian  to  a 
child  so  lately  used  to  the  blessedness  of  a  home  with  her  mother 
— and  withal,  so  shy  and  sensitive  as  to  breathe  freely  only  in 
an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  affection,  and  Luckenough  would 
have  supplied  a  dark  and  dreary  home  for  her  whose  melan- 
choly temperament  and  recent  bereavements  rendered  change 
of  scene  and  the  companionship  of  other  children  absolute 
necessities.  It  was  for  these  several  reasons  that  Mrs.  Waugh 
was  forced  to  consent  that  Thurston  should  carry  his  little 
adopted  daughter  to  his  own  home.  Thurston's  household 
consisted  now  of  himself,  Mrs.  Morris,  his  housekeeper,  Alice 
Morris,  her  daughter,  Paul  Douglass,  his  own  half-brother,  poor 
Fanny,  and  lastly,  Miriam. 

Mrs.  Morris  was  a  lady  of  good  family,  but  decayed  fortune, 
of  sober  years  and  exemplary  piety.  In  closing  her  terms  with 
Mr.  Willcoxen  her  one  great  stipulation  had  been  that  she 
should  bring  her  daughter,  whom  she  declared  to  be  too  "young 
and  giddy"  to  be  trusted  out  of  her  own  sight,  even  to  a  good 
boarding  school. 

Mr.  Willcoxen  expressed  himself  rather  pleased  than  other- 
wise at  the  prospect  of  Miriam's  having  a  companion,  and  so 
the  engagement  was  closed. 

Alice  Morris  was  a  hearty,  cordial,  blooming  hoyden,  really 
about  ten  or  eleven  years  of  age,  but  seeming  from  her  fine 
growth  and  proportions  at  least  thirteen  or  fourteen. 

Paul  Douglass  was  a  fine,  handsome,  well-grown  boy  of  four- 
teen, with  an  open,  manly  forehead,  shaded  with  clustering, 
yellow  curls,  as  soft  and  silky  as  a  girl's,  and  a  full,  beaming, 
merry,  blue  eye,  whose  flashing  glances  were  the  most  mirth- 


528  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

provoking  to  all  upon  whom  they  chanced  to  light.  Paul  was, 
and  ever  since  his  first  arrival  in  the  house  had.leen,  "the  life 
of  the  family."  His  merry  laugh  and  shout  were  the  pleasantest 
sounds  in  all  the  precincts  of  Dell-Delight.  When  Paul  first 
heard  that  there  was  to  be  an  invasion  of  "  women  and  girls" 
into  Dell-Delight,  he  declared  he  had  rather  there  had  been  an 
irruption  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals  at  once — for  if  there  were 
any  folks  he  could  not  get  along  with,  they  were  "the  gals." 
Besides  which,  he  was  sure  now  to  have  the  coldest  seat  around 
the  fire,  the  darkest  place  at  the  table,  the  backward  ride  in  the 
carriage,  and  to  get  the  necks  of  chickens  and  the  tails  of  fishes 
for  his  share  of  the  dinner.  Boys  were  always  put  mon  by  the 
girls,  and  sorry  enough  he  was,  he  said,  that  any  were  coming 
to  the  house.  And  he  vowed  a  boyish  vow — "by  thunder  and 
lightning" — that  he  would  torment  the  girls  to  the  very  best  of 
his  ability. 

Girls  forsooth !  girls  coming  to  live  there  day  and  night,  and 
eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  and  sit,  and  sew,  and  walk  up  and 
down  through  the  halls,  and  parlors,  and  chambers  of  Dell- 
Delight — girls,  with  their  airs,  and  affectations,  and  pretensions, 
and  exactions — girls — pah!  the  idea  was  perfectly  disgusting 
and  offensive.  He  really  did  wonder  at  "  Brother,"  but  then 
he  already  considered  "Brother"  something  of  an  old  bachelor, 
and  old  bachelors  would  be  queer. 

But  Thurston  well  knew  how  to  smite  the  rock,  and  open  the 
fountain  of  sympathy  in  the  lad's  heart.  He  said  nothing  in 
reply  to  the  boy's  saucy  objections,  but  on  the  evening  that 
little  Miriam  arrived,  he  beckoned  Paul  into  the  parlor  where 
the  child  sat,  alone,  and  pointing  her  out  to  him,  said  in  a  low 
tone, 

"  Look  at  her,  she  has  lost  all  her  friends — she  has  just  como 
from  her  mother's  grave — she  is  strange,  and  sad,  and  lonesome. 
Go,  try  to  amuse  her." 

"  I  don't  know  how,"  said  Paul. 

"Go  show  her  your  books,  or  your  engravings,  or  minerals, 
or  dried  beetles  or  whatever  may  be  the  present  hobby  or  en 
tb'isiasm." 


THURSTON.  520 

"She  is  a  queer  one.  She  is  all  black  and  white — black 
dress,  curls,  eyes,  and  eyebrows,  and  white  face,  hands,  and 
neck  1  I  say,  brother,  she  is  a  sketch  in  Indian  ink,  with  less 
light  than  shadow  about  her." 

"You're  a  babbling  boy — but  go  and  talk  to  her." 

"I  say,  brother,  she  is  like  Melrose  Abbey  by  moonlight — 
'all  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory,'  and  just  as  picturesque  and 
solemn,  too." 

"  You  are  an  unfeeling  boy,  I  am  afraid.  Don't  you  know 
that  it  is  grief  that  makes  her  look  so  pale  ?  She  is  jus',  au 
orphan." 

"I'm  going  to  her,  though  I  hardly  know  how,"  replied  the 
lad,  moving  toward  the  spot  where  the  abstracted  child  sat 
deeply  musing. 

"  Miriam  !  Is  that  your  name,"  he  asked,  by  way  of  opening 
the  conversation. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  child,  very  softly  and  shyly. 

"  It's  a  very  heathenish — oh,  Lord  ! — I  mean  it's  a  very  pretty 
name  is  Miriam,  it's  a  Bible  name,  too.  I  don't  know  but  what 
it's  a  saint's  name  also." 

The  little  girl  made  no  reply,  and  the  boy  felt  at  a  loss  what 
to  say  next.  After  lidgeting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  he  began 
again. 

"  Miriam,  shall  I  show  you  my  books — Scott's  poems,  and  the 
Waverley  novels,  and  Milton's  Paradise,  and — " 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  interrupted  the  girl,  uneasily. 

"  Well,  would  you  like  to  see  my  pictures — two  volumes  of 
engravings,  and  a  portfolio  full  of  sketches  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Shall  I  bring  you  my  drawer  full  of  minerals  ?  I  have  got — " 

"I  don't  want  them,  please." 

"  Well,  then,  would  you  like  the  dried  bugs  ?  I've  got  whole 
cards  of  them  under  a  glass  case,  and — " 

"  I  don't  want  them  either,  please." 

"  Dear  me  !  I  have  not  got  anything  else  to  amuse  you  wittt 
What  do  you  want  ?" 


630  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Miriam  began  to  weep.  Mr.  Willcoxen  came  up  to  her  and 
took  her  hand  gently,  and  spoke  kindly,  saying, 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  child  ?" 

"  This  boy  wont  go  away  and  let  me  alone,"  wept  Miriam. 

"'Boy,'  humph!"  said  Paul,  walking  off  in  high  dudgeoi?. 
Presently  he  walked  back.  "  I  say,  little  girl,  I  just  want  to 
speak  one  word,  may  I  ?" 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Miriam. 

"  I  just  want  to  make  a  bargain  with  you.  You  don't  like 
boys,  I  reckon  ?" 

"No,"  murmured  Miriam. 

"  That's  you !  We  shall  agree  first  rate,  for  neither  do  I 
like  girls.  I  hate  them  like  anything — so  now  for  a  bargain,  if 
you  will  let  me  alone  and  never  speak  to  me,  I  will  let  you 
alone  and  never  speak  to  you.  Come !  will  you  agree  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miriam. 

"  That's  right.  I  don't  think  you'll  trouble  me  so  much  after 
all.  I  don't  care  if  I  give  you  a  ride  on  my  pony  to-morrow. 
Say !  would  you  like  to  ride  on  my  pony  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  I've  got  a  canoe,  then.  I'll  give  you  a  ride  in  the  canoe 
to-morrow — would  you  like  that  ?" 

"  No  I  shouldn't." 

"  Well  what  would  you  like  ?  Can't  I  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  can  go-away  and  leave  me  alone.  You  promised 
to,  and  now  you  wont." 

"Am  I  doing  you  any  harm — aint  I  trying  to  please  yon ?" 

"  No — you  promised  not  to  speak  to  me,  and  you  keep  on 
doing  so." 

Once  more  Paul  walked  off  indignantly,  but  looking  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  little  shrinking,  cowering  form,  he  said  to  him- 
self, "Poor  little  shy  creature,  she  is  just  for  all  the  world  like 
that  little  wounded  blackbird  that  I  found  and  tried  to  save,  but 
that  fluttered  away  from  me  every  time  I  touched  it,"  then  turn- 
iug  back,  he  said  to  her, 

"  Miriam,  what  makes  you  hate  boys  so  ?'* 


THURSTON.  531 

"  We  didn't  have  any  boys  at  home,"  said  the  child,  shrink- 
ing more  into  herself. 

And  Paul,  seeing  that  his  efforts  at  entertaining  only  dis- 
tressed her,  walked  away.  And  after  that  Paul  took  her  out 
of  the  offensive  class  of  "gals,"  and  called  her  the  poor  little 
wounded  "  blackbird,"  and  wondered  how  he  should  ever  be 
able  to  serve,  without  alarming  her. 

Miriam  continued  very  shy,  showing  no  more  disposition  to 
associate  with  Mrs.  Morris  or  Alice,  than  with  Paul — and  de- 
lighting only  in  the  company  of  Aunt  Jenny,  who  had  attended 
her  from  Old  Fields. 

The  next  day  fortune  favored  Paul  in  his  efforts  to  please 
Miriam.  He  had  a  tame  white  rabbit,  and  he  thought  that  the 
child  would  like  it  for  a  pet — so  he  got  up  very  early  in  the 
morning,  and  washed  the  rabbit  "clean  as  a  new  penny,"  and 

put  it  under  a  new  box  to  get  dry  while  he  rode  to  C and 

bought  a  blue  ribbon  to  tic  around  its  neck.  This  jaunt  made 
Paul  very  late  at  breakfast,  but  he  felt  rewarded  when  after- 
wards he  gave  the  rabbit  to  old  Jenny,  and  asked  her  to  give  it 
to  the  little  girl — and  when  he  heard  the  latter  say — "  Oh,  what 
a  pretty  little  thing!  tell  Paul,  thanky !"  After  this,  by  slow 
degrees,  he  was  enabled  to  approach  "the  little  blackbird" 
withoot  alarming  her.  And  after  a  while  he  coaxed  her  to 
take  a  row  in  his  little  boat,  and  a  ride  on  his  little  pony — al- 
ways qualifying  his  attentions  by  saying  that  he  did  not  like 
girls  as  a  general  thing,  but  that  she  was  different  from  others. 
And  Mr.  Willcoxen  witnessed,  with  much  satisfaction,  the  grow- 
ing friendship  between  the  girl  and  boy,  for  they  were  the  two 
creatures  in  the  world  who  divided  all  the  interest  he  felt  in 
life.  The  mutual  effect  of  the  children  upon  each  other's  cha- 
racters was  very  beneficent ;  the  gay  and  joyous  spirits  of  Paul 
continually  charmed  Miriam  away  from  those  fits  of  melancholy, 
t  >  which  she  was  by  temperament  and  circumstances  a  prey, 
while  the  little  girl's  shyness  and  timidity  taught  Paul  to  tame 
his  own  boisterous  manners  for  her  sake. 

But  of  all  the  family  Miriam  was  most  attracted  to  the  lonely 


532  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

.sorrowful  man  who  passed  so  many  hours  shut  up  in  his  study. 
A  certain  sympathy  put  the  child  en-rapport  with  the  recluse. 
She  felt  that  he  was  suffering,  and  longed  for  the  ability  to 
comfort  him.  Often  she  resolved  iu  her  mind  the  problem  of 
how  she  should  be  able  to  serve  or  console  him.  Not  the  least 
obstacle  was  her  shyness  and  timidity,  her  self-distrust — for 
what  could  a  little  girl  do  ?  But  the  heart  is  a  good  teacher. 

There  was  a  sitting-room  with  front  windows  commanding  a 
view  of  the  vista  opening  to  the  bay ;  this  room  was  slightly 
repaired  and  furnished,  just  sufficiently  to  make  it  neat  and 
comfortable ;  and  it  was  usually  occupied  by  Mrs.  Morris  and 
the  two  girls.  There  was  an  old-fashioned  centre  work-table, 
called  a  "  sociable,"  with  four  drawers  around  it  tending  to  a 
common  centre,  like  spokes  in  a  wheel,  and  around  this  table 
they  would  gather  with  their  books  or  needle-work. 

Paul,  when  he  became  somewhat  reconciled  to  the  girls, 
claimed  the  fourth  drawer  and  the  vacant  seat  at  the  table.  This 
drawer  of  Paul's  was  a  source  of  great  diversion  to  Alice  Mor- 
ris, who  called  it  a  mental  thermometer,  by  which  she  could 
always  tell  the  state  of  the  boy's  mind.  And  many  were  the 
fluctuations  it  recorded,  and  it  was  a  laughable  mystery  to  his 
friends,  whether  he  meant  finally  to  distinguish  himself  in  art, 
science,  belles  lettres,  poetry  or  mechanics.  One  month  geo- 
logy would  reign  supreme,  and  Paul's  drawer  would  be  filled 
with  minerals  ;  next,  accident  would  direct  his  attention  to  art, 
and  the  minerals  would  all  be  hustled  away  in  a  corner  of  the 
closet,  and  the  drawer  filled  with  engravings  and  pencil  sketches, 
to  be  discarded  in  their  turn  to  make  room  for  dried  bugs  and 
impaled  worms,  to  remain  so  long  as  natural  history  held  the 
ascendency. 

His  next  frenzy  was  for  carving,  and  the  bugs  and  butterflies 
were  turned  out  to  give  place  to  cedar  blocks,  and  slabs,  and 
penknives,  and  designs  for  inkstands  and  work-boxes  and  minia- 
ture cathedrals,  and  panels  for  ornamental  book-cases  that  were 
never  destined  to  completion.  This  was  a  sore  trial  to  a  tidy 
woman  like  Mrs.  Morris,  as  Paul,  in  his  zeal  for  carving,  sue 


THURSTON.  533 

rounded  himself  for  many  feet  in  circa mferenc*  with  cnips  and 
shavings ;  and  the  governess  would  not  have  borne  it  long,  had 
not  little  Miriam,  perceiving  her  annoyance,  quietly  slipped 
down  and  gathered  up  the  litter  whenever  it  was  made.  In 
reward  for  which  services  Paul  generously  made  the  child  a 
present  of  every  piece  of  carving  that  he  had  spoiled. 

But  heavy  as  the  dispensation  of  carving  was  felt  to  be,  they 
had  good  reason  to  wish  the  reign  of  chips  and  shavings  back 
again,  when  one  evening  Paul  returned  from  the  village,  bring- 
ing with  him  a  cracked  flute,  bought  at  second-hand,  and  a  book 
of  instructions,  to  teach  himself  to  play  upon  it,  and  there  fol- 
lowed a  visitation  of  horrible  discords  that  Paul  called  music. 
This  nearly  drove  the  quiet  circle  crazy,  for  Paul  had  no  ear  for 
tune,  and  not  the  slightest  conception  of  variation  in  sound, 
except  as  it  made  more  or  less  noise,  and  to  him — "fa,  so,  la," 
stood  for  loud!  louder!!  loudest!!!  he  ever  thought  that  he 
who  had  the  best  lungs,  or  made  the  most  noise,  was  the  great- 
est performer.  And  sometimes  I  have  suspected  an  opera 
troupe  of  being  under  the  same  hallucination.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  if  poor  Paul  ever 

Heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies — 

he  never  succeeded  in  giving  it  utterance,  but  instead,  awoke 
such  discords  of  dreadful  sounds  as  can  only  be  imagined  to 
exist  in  the  future  place  of  punishment  for  wicked  musicians. 
Conversation  was  difficult,  and  study  impossible.  And  the 
amateur  would  have  been  ordered  off,  only — where  was  he  to 
go  ?  As  he  himself  argued  with  a  very  ill-used  air,  he  "  conld 
not  go  in  the  kitchen  to  play,  for,  if  ladies  had  no  taste  for 
melody,  it  wasn't  to  be  expected  that  niggers  would  have;  nor 
they  hadn't  either,  for  when  he  sat  down  there  to  play  for  them, 
they  all  went  away  but  the  cook,  who  was  dressing  the  dinner, 
and  she  said  it  deafened  her  and  made  her  head  ache.  And  as 
for  brother,  he  dare  not  go  into  /its  study  and  tool,  for  ho 
wouldn't  stand  it  a  minute."  Where  was  he  to  practice,  sure 
enough  ?  So  they  bore  the  infliction  as  merrily  as  they  could, 
44* 


534  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

repaying  the  debt  by  many  a  jest  at  the  performer's  expense, 
and  longing-  for  the  good  weather  to  come,  when  Paul  might 
take  his  flute  abroad,  and  "toot"  to  the  "hills  and  fields  and 
streams,"  in  true  pastoral  style. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Willcoxen  would  come  into  the  sitting-room. 
And  in  a  moment  Paul  would  stop  blowing,  put  his  flute  into 
the  drawer  and  shut  it  up. 

But  Miriam  would  slip  quietly  from  her  chair,  and  leave  it 
vacant  for  the  new  comer.  And  Mr.  Willcoxen  would  take  it 
without  even  perceiving  whose  attention  had  left  it  for  him. 
And  that  suited  Miriam  best;  she  felt  very  kiudly  towards  him, 
but  she  did  uot  like  to  be  noticed. 

As  the  spring  opened,  Mrs.  Morris  and  her  pupils  became 
interested  in  the  neglected  flower-garden,  and  with  the  aid  of  a 
skillful  gardener,  they  soon  had  it  in  nice  order. 

But  Miriam  noticed  that  her  mournful  guardian  took  no  in- 
terest in  their  labor  and  its  success.  And  though  she  glided 
into  his  study  every  morning  in  his  absence,  to  place  a  vase  of 
fragrant  flowers  on  his  table,  she  did  riot  know  whether  her 
offering  was  welcome,  or  whether  its  presence  was  even  per- 
ceived by  the  abstracted  solitary. 

One  day  in  June,  however,  while  the  child  was  in  the  garden 
weeding  her  violets,  and  Mr.  Willcoxen  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  central  walk,  absorbed  in  deep  thought,  she  saw  him 
stop,  stoop  down,  and  raise  a  blue  morning-glory  in  his  hand. 
He  did  not  pluck  it,  but  held  it  gently,  and  gazed  long  and 
strangely  down  into  its  vase-like  cup. 

It  was  the  only  morning-glory  in  the  garden ;  its  presem  e 
there  was  accidental.  But  Miriam  resolved  to  go  to  her  old 
home,  where  they  grew  abundantly,  and  bring  some  to  plant ; 
perhaps  they  might  live  if  she  should  water  them  well.  She 
would  try,  anyhow,  for  Mr.  Willcoxen,  who  never  noticed  th<> 
fine  roses  and  lilies  and  tulips  and  hyacinths,  had  studied  the 
morning-glory.  She  knew,  besides,  that  it  was  Marian's  favo- 
rite flower.  And,  oh !  at  that  thought,  ^ame  back  the  rushing 
tide  of  tender  memories,  freighted  with  love  and  sorrow  insup- 


THUR8TON.  535 

portable,  and  the  little  girl  started  up  and  fled  away  into  the 
forest,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  face  to  give  way  to  those 
overwhelming  bursts  of  sorrow  that  she  always  ehose  to  indulge 
in  solitude. 

Mrs.  Waugh  had  not  forgotten  her  young  protege.  She 
came  as  often  as  possible  to  Dell-Delight,  to  inquire  after  the 
health  and  progress  of  the  little  girl. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  in  any  neighborhood  where  there 
existed  managing  mammas  and  unmarried  daughters,  that  a 
yonng  gentleman,  handsome,  accomplished,  wealthy,  and  of  good 
repute,  should  remain  unmolested  in  his  bachelorhood.  Indeed 
the  matrons  and  maidens  of  his  own  circle  seemed  to  think 
themselves  individually  aggrieved  by  the  young  heir's  mode  of 
life.  And  many  were  the  dinners  and  evening  parties  got  up 
for  his  sake,  in  vain,  for,  to  their  infinite  disgust,  Thurstou  al- 
ways returned  an  excuse  instead  of  an  acceptance. 

At  length  the  wounded  self-esteem  of  the  community  received 
a  healing  salve,  in  the  form  of  a  report  that  Mr.  Willcoxen  had 
withdrawn  from  the  gay  world,  in  order  the  better  to  prepare 
himself  for  the  Christian  ministry.  A  report  that,  in  twelve 
months,  received  its  confirmation  in  the  well  established  fact, 
that  Thurston  Willcoxen  was  a  candidate  for  holy  orders. 

And  in  the  meantime  the  young  guardian  did  not  neglect  his 
youthful  charge,  but  in  strict  interpretation  of  his  assumed  du- 
ties of  guardianship,  he  had  taken  the  education  of  the  girl  and 
boy  under  his  own  personal  charge. 

"  Many  hard-working  ministers  of  the  Gospel  have  received 
pupils  to  educate  for  hire.  Why  may  not  I,  with  more  time  at 
my  command,  reserve  the  privilege  of  educating  my  own  adopted 
son  and  daughter,"  he  said,  and  acting  upon  that  thought,  had 
fitted  up  a  little  school-room  adjoining  his  library,  where,  in  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Morris,  Miriam  and  Paul  pursued  their  studies, 
Mrs.  Morris  hearing  such  recitations  as  lay  within  her  province, 
and  Mr.  WillcoxeL  attending  to  the  classical  and  mathematical 
branches.  Thus  passed  many  mouths,  and  every  mouth  the  hearts 


53G  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

of  the  children  were  knitted  closer  to  each  other  and  to  their 
guardian. 

And  Thurston  "Willcoxen  "  grew  in  favor,  with  God  and  man." 
His  name  became  the  synonym  for  integrity,  probity  and  philan- 
thropy. He  built  a  church  and  a  free-school,  and  supported 
both  at  his  own  expense.  In  the  third  year  after  entering  upon 
his  inheritance,  he  was  received  into  holy  orders ;  and  two 
years  after,  he  was  elected  pastor  of  his  native  parish.  Thus 
time  went  by,  and  brought  at  length  the  next  eventful  epoch  of 
our  domestic  history — that  upon  which  Miriam  completed  her 
sixteenth  year. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

MIRIAM. 

*  Tier  cheek  too  quickly  flushes ;  o'er  her  eye 
The  lights  and  shadows  come  and  go  too  fast. 
The  tears  gush  forth  too  soon,  and  in  her  voice 
Ar«  sounds  of  tenderness  too  passionate 
For  peace  on  earth." — Mrs.  Hemant. 

Six  years  had  passed  away.  Thurston  Willcoxen  was  the 
most  beloved  and  honored  man,  as  well  as  the  most  distinguished 
clergyman  of  his  day  and  state.  His  church  was  always  crowded, 
except  when  he  changed  with  some  brother  minister,  whose 
pulpit  was  within  reach — in  which  case,  a  great  portion  of  his 
congregation  followed  him.  Many  flattering  "calls"  had  the 
gifted  and  eloquent  country  parson  received  to  metropolitan 
parishes ;  but  he  remained  the  faithful  shepherd  of  his  own 
Hock  as  long  as  they  would  hear  his  voice. 

Thurston  was  young,  healthful,  and  handsome ;  wealthy, 
talented,  honored,  and  prosperous — what  was  wanted  to  com- 
plete his  happiness?  What,  alas!  Time,  that  soothes  all  oth^r 
sorrows  to  sleep,  has  no  opiate  for  remorse ;  Time,  that  b»J 
brought  him  wealth,  fame,  and  love,  brought  him  no  peace. 


MIRIAM.  537 

The  church,  the  school,  and  the  asylum  he  had  established, 
flourished  well ;  yet  he  could  not  but  feel  acutely  that  had  Ma- 
rian's loving  heart  and  clear  head  assisted  him  in  their  govern- 
ment and  direction,  they  would  have  prospered  better.  Through 
all  his  nature  he  missed  the  twin  woman-soul,  and  there  was 
none  to  take  her  place — none !  There  were  good  and  beautiful 
girls  around  him,  and  they  were  not  indifferent  to  the  many 
attractions  of  the  young  clergyman.  His  genius,  his  goodness, 
his  eloquence,  and  a  certain  touching  beauty  and  grace  of  look 
and  tone  and  manner  drew  all  hearts  to  himself.  More  than  one 
maiden  secretly  worshiped  the  minister, — love  came  to  him 
uudesired,  as  fame  came  unsought.  He  had  known  Marian,  his 
ideal  woman,  and  even  had  his  bitter  sorrow  for  her  supposed 
death  been  free  from  remorse,  her  memory  still  had  rendered  the 
charms  of  all  other  women  powerless  to  win  her  place  in  his 
heart.  He  had  seen  Marian,  and  though  years  had  passed, 
time  and  distance  seemed  only  to  idealize  and  hallow  and  glo- 
rify her  image  until  her  excellence  appeared  little  less  than 
angelic. 

And  thus,  as  year  after  year  rolled  on,  he  became  more  and 
more  of  a  lonely,  abstracted,  and  sorrowing  man — shunning 
society,  except  when  duty  called  him  out.  Little  did  they  know, 
who  wondered  at  his  genius  and  eloquence,  that  wisdom  had 
entered  by  the  sorrow  that  had  "touched  his  lips  with  Cre." 
Little  did  they  think  who  wondered  at  his  perfect  knowledge 
of  the  human  heart,  how  it  was  by  breaking  his  own,  that  he 
had  found  out  allots  secret  mechanism — by  letting  the  tempest 
sweep  the  bosom's  harp,  he  had  found  out  all  the  chords,  and 
"knew  their  every  tone."  The  honor  of  men,  the  love  of 
dreaming  girls,  the  admiration  of  all,  was  his  dower  already, 
a,nd  he  would  have  been  blessed  with  the  beautiful  friendship  of 
woman,  too,  but  for  the  want  of  that  nearest  and  dearest  wo- 
man— that  second  self — that  twin  soul,  Marian  !  Had  she  been 
with  him,  then  had  he  been  in  harmony  with  all  outer  cirlcs  of 
social  life  and  love.  Then  had  there  been  no  poetic  maidens 
dreaming  vain  dreams  of  him,  and  eliciting  no  resucn.se,  save 


538  THE       MISSING       BRIBE. 

that  of  a  faint  surprise  and  pity  soon  forgotten.  Tl.on  had  the 
»riendship  and  admiration  of  women  been  congenial  «o  his  na- 
ture— added  larger  life  to  his  life;  now  something  was  wanted 
between  himself  and  them — it  was  woman's  soul — (he  wife's 
soul  united  to  his  own  to  make  all  outer  circles  of  affection  har- 
monious and  beautiful  and  beneficial.  And  thus  it  was,  repuls- 
ing man's  sympathy  and  woman's  friendship,  the  lonely  heart 
shrank  more  and  more  into  itself. 

With  the  exception  of  two  days  in  the  week,  namely,  Sundays 
when  he  preached,  and  Wednesdays  set  apart  for  parochial 
visits,  he  usually  passed  his  mornings  in  his  study,  and  his  after- 
noons in  rambling  through  the  forest  or  on  the  beach. 

Of  all  the  world,  perhaps  his  affections  only  moved  towards 
Paul  and  Miriam ;  but  even  in  these  relations  there  was  some- 
thing wanting; — he  was  not  en  rapport  with  either  of  the 
young  people,  a  chill  atmosphere  of  distrust,  felt,  not  under- 
stood, still  less  expressed,  seemed  to  envelop  him,  and  repel 
them. 

Miriam,  as  she  bloomed  into  womanhood,  more  than  fulfilled 
the  rich  promise  of  beauty  given  by  her  infancy.  She  was  one 
of  those  strange  visions  of  beauty  that  sometimes  surprise  the 
beholder,  and  vanish,  to  leave  behind  a  haunting,  dream  to  the 
half-delighted,  half-incredulous  memory.  Her  form  and  face 
were  of  the  eastern  type — a  slight,  elegant,  lithe  figure ;  swift, 
smooth,  graceful  motions;  a  liquid,  low-toned  voice;  a  thin, 
dark,  piquant  face ;  features  sharply  defined,  yet  softly  and  de- 
licately finished ;  rich  olive  complexion,  deepening  and  bright- 
ening into  ripe  bloom  upon  the  cheeks  and  lips; — large  liquid 
eyes,  dark,  fathomless,  and  splendid  as  Syrian  midnight  skies  , 
hair  of  that  burning  biue  black  hue,  tempered  in  torrid  zones ; 
which  dropped  in  countless  little  spiral  ringlets,  crisp  as  grape 
tendrils,  and  glittering  like  jet  down  her  temples,  cheeks,  and 
throat,  just  reaching  and  dancing  lightly  on  the  graceful  neck. 
Miriam  liked  dark  brilliant  colors,  and  her  usual  dress  was  black 
or  crimson,  except  at  midsummer,  when  she  wore  only  white. 
Her  favorite  flower  was  the  crimson  cypress  vine — and  at  all 


MIRIAM.  539 

f.lic  summer  festivals  its  fiery  stars  wreathed  her  head,  and 
glowed  amid  the  glittering  tendrils  of  black  hair.  Her  young 
companions  wondered  at  her  preference,  and  whispered  that  it 
was  the  blood-stained  flower  of  death.  But  Miriam  had  never 
heard,  or  never  heeded  the  superstition.  Of  all  the  seasons  of 
the  year  she  loved  the  midsummer  best,  and  of  all  hours  she 
enjoyed  most  the  starlit  midnight,  when  all  the  earth  was  still — • 
and  in  all  the  heavens  there  was  neither  moon  nor  cloud,  nothing 
but  the  clear  unfathomable  sky,  and  its  myriads  of  intensely 
brilliant  stars.  All  her  tastes  were  governed  by  the  same  char- 
acteristics of  mind.  In  music  she  cared  nothing  for  simple 
melodies  arid  familiar  household  songs,  dear  to  most  hearts,  but 
sacred  anthems  or  high  heroic  martial  strains  had  power  to 
catch  and  wrap  her  soul  in  a  sort  of  ecstatic  enthusiasm. 
She  had  few  books,  and  fewer  favorites  among  them.  Of  poetry, 
Shakspeare's  tragedies  and  historical  plays,  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost,  and  Scott's  metrical  romances,  were  her  preferences. 

Notwithstanding  her  earnest  and  impassioned  temperament, 
and,  perhaps,  because  of  it,  Miriam  was  profoundly  happy.  She 
drew  deep  drafts  of  joy  from  the  face  of  nature  around  her, 
from  books,  from  painting,  from  music,  from  the  affections  of 
her  heart,  and  from  her  sympathy  with  all  that  is  high  and  heroic 
in  human  nature  and  human  history. 

She  had  not  ceased  to  remember  and  to  love  her  mother  and 
Marian ;  but  the  image  presented  by  memory  was  one  of  holy 
leauty — glorified  saints,  angels  before  the  throne  of  God — so 
she  thought  of  them. 

The  recollection  of  the  vow  by  which  she  bound  her  soul, 
gave  no  painful  anxiety,  but  a  strange  and  fascinating  interest 
to  her  future  life. 

la  her  childhood,  Miriam  had  been  too  shy  to  speak  to  any 
one  of  her  strange  vow,  and  as  she  grew  to  womanhood,  pru- 
dence held  her  silent  upon  the  subject,  while  she  kept  her  facul- 
ties ever  upon  the  alert  for  the  discovery  of  some  clue  that 
might  eventually  lead  to  the  detection  of  the  guilty. 

She  carefully  preserved  in  memory,  and  often   recalled  to 


04G  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

mind  the  slight  indexes  that  she  already  had  in  possession — 
namely,  beginning  with  Marian's  return  after  her  visit  to  Wash- 
ington— her  changed  manner,  her  fits  of  reverie,  her  melancholy 
when  she  returned  empty-handed  from  the  post-office,  her  joy 
when  she  received  letters,  which  she  would  read  in  secret  and 
in  silence,  or  when  questioned  concerning  them,  would  gently 
but  firmly  decline  to  tell  from  whom  or  whence  they  came; 
the  house-warming  at  Luckenough,  where  Marian  suddenly  be- 
came so  bright  and  gay,  and  the  evening  succeeding,  when  she 
returned  home  through  night  and  storm,  and  in  such  anguish 
of  mind,  that  she  wept  all  night ;  and  the  weeks  of  unexplained, 
unaccountable  distress  that  followed  this!  All  these  things 
Mirxnn  recalled,  and  studied  if  by  any  means  they  might  direct 
her  in  the  discovery  of  the  guilty. 

And  her  faithful  study  had  eventuated  in  her  assurance 
of  one  or  two  facts — or  one  or  two  links,  perhaps  we  should 
say,  in  the  chain  of  evidence.  The  first  was,  that  Marian's 
mysterious  lover  had  been  present  in  the  neighborhood,  and, 
perhaps,  in  the  mansion  at  the  time  of  the  house-warming  at 
Luckenough — that  he  had  met  her  once  or  more,  and  that  his 
name  was  not  Thomas  Truman — that  the  latter  was  an  assumed 
name,  for,  with  all  her  observation  and  astute  investigation,  she 
had  not  been  able  to  find  that  any  one  of  the  name  of  Truman 
had  ever  been  seen  or  heard  of  in  the  county. 

She  was  sure,  also,  that  she  had  seen  the  man  twice,  both 
times  in  night  and  storm,  when  she  had  wandered  forth  in  search 
of  Marian. 

She  remembered  well  the  strange  figure  of  that  man — the 
tall  form  shrouded  in  the  black  cloak — the  hat  drawn  over  the 
eyes — the  faint  spectral  gleam  of  the  clear-cnt  profile — the  pe- 
culiar fall  of  light  and  shade,  the  decided  individuality  of  air 
and  gait — all  was  distinct  as  a  picture  in  her  memory,  and  she 
felt  sure  that  she  would  be  able  to  identify  that  man  again. 

Up  to  this  time,  the  thought  of  her  secret  vow,  and  her  life's 
mission,  had  afforded  only  a  romantic  and  heroic  excitement  ; 
bat  the  day  was  fast  approaching  when  these  indexes  ?he  re- 


MIRIAM.  541 

tained,  should  point  to'  a  clue  that  should  lead  tnrough  a  train 
of  damning  circumstantial  evidence  destined  to  test  her  soul  by 
an  unexampled  trial. 

Paul  Douglass  had  grown  up  to  be  a  tall  and  handsome 
youth,  of  a  very  noble,  frank,  attractive  countenance  and  man- 
ners. To  say  that  he  loved  Miriam  is  only  to  say  that  he  loved 
himself.  She  mingled  with  every  thought,  and  feeling,  and 
purpose  of  his  heart.  He  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  a  separate 
interest,  far  less  of  a  separate  existence  from  hers.  lie  had 
cured  himself  of  his  habit  of  flirting  with  the  muses,  in  turn,  and 
had  devoted  himself  to  that  god  or  goddess  that  presides  over 
the  art  of  healing ;  in  other  words,  he  had  given  up  dilet- 
tanteisra  with  the  polite  arts  ;  frankly  confessing  that  when  he 
had  made  one  line  of  verse,  he  never  could  get  another  to  match 
it,  and  as  for  music,  he  did  not  know  "  Auld  Lang  Syne" 
from  "Old  Hundred,"  unless  the  singers  would  tell  him;  a 
fault  that  might  have  been  as  much  with  the  musicians  as  with 
honest  Paul's  ear ;  and  he  had  commenced  and  was  diligentlv 
pursuing  the  study  of  medicine.  Miriam  had  wished  him  to 
enter  the  army.  "But  no,"  said  canny  Scottish  Paul;  "I 
grant  you  that  both  are  very  attractive,  but  Miriam,  I  will  be 
a  doctor,  and  save  men,  instead  of  destroying  them.  Arid  I 
tell  you,  Miriam,  that  I  think  the  man  that  mends  bones  for  a 
living  quite  as  good  a  fellow  as  he  who  breaks  them  for  the 
same  purpose  ;  and  a  faithful  physician,  in  the  time  of  pesti- 
lence, is  a  greater  hero  than  all  the  plumed  and  gilded,  sword 
and  buckler  butchers  that  ever  killed,  on  sea  or  land,  for  pa- 
triotism, passion,  pay,  or  plunder,  from  the  time  of  Cain,  when 
one  brother  rose  up  against  the  other,  and  slew  him,  to  this 
time,  when  thousands  of  brethren  rise  up  against  other  thou- 
sands, and  slay  them." 

But  Miriam's  youthful  heart  was  impressed  with  a  passion  for 
glory,  without  well  understanding  in  what  it  consisted — she  was 
inspired  by  pageantry,  splendor,  and  martial  music ;  and  she 
argued  the  point  with  Paul,  telling  him  that  had  it  not  been 
for  those  very  "sword  and  buckler  butchers"  who  bore  the 
34 


542  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

shock  of  battle  in  troublous  times,  and  whose  exposure  abroad 
still  secured  our  safety  at  home,  the  quiet  citizen  could  not 
pursue  his  avocations  in  peace,  nor  would  he,  Paul,  be  sitting 
there  "  under  his  own  vine  and  fig  tree,"  delivering  the  oracles 
of  unripe  wisdom. 

Paul  would  laugh,  and  reply  that  the  glitter  of  the  uniform 
dazzled  her  judgment.  And  so  the  controversy  would  end,  or 
go  on,  as  it  might  chance ;  the  two  young  people  never  loving 
each  other  better  than  when  they  honestly  differed,  and  frankly 
expressed  their  difference.  And  as  for  the  youth,  the  very 
hours  given  to  study  were  almost  grudged,  because  they  took 
him  from  the  girl's  society. 

And  when,  at  last,  the  time  came  that  Paul  had  to  leave 
home  for  Baltimore,  to  remain  absent  all  winter,  for  the  purpose 
of  attending  the  course  of  lectures  at  the  medical  college,  Miriam 
learned  the  pain  of  parting,  and  understood  how  impossible 
happiness  would  be  for  her,  with  Paul  away,  on  naval  or  mili- 
tary duty,  more  than  half  their  lives,  and  for  periods  of  two, 
three,  or  five  years  ;  and  after  that  she  never  said  another  word 
in  favor  of  his  wearing  Uncle  Sam's  livery. 

Miriam's  affection  for  Paul  was  so  profound  and  quiet,  that 
she  did  not  know  its  depth  or  strength.  As  she  had  not  be- 
lieved that  parting  from  him,  would  be  painful  until  the  event 
had  taught  her,  so  even  now  she  did  not  know  how  intertwined 
with  every  chord  and  fibre  of  her  heart,  and  how  identical  with 
her  life,  was  her  love  of  Paul.  She  was  occupied  by  a  more  en 
thusiastic  devotion  to  her  "  brother,"  as  she  called  hei 
guardian. 

The  mysterious  sorrow,  the  incurable  melancholy  of  a  man 
like  Thurston  "Willcoxen,  could  not  but  invest  him  with  peculiar 
interest  and  even  strange  fascination  for  one  of  Miriam's  en- 
thusiastic, earnest  temperament.  She  loved  him  with  more 
than  a  daughter's  love — she  loved  him  with  all  the  impassioned 
earnestness  of  her  nature — her  heart  yearned  as  it  would  break 
with  its  wild,  intense  longing  to  do  him  some  good,  to  euro 
his  sorrow,  to  make  him  happy.  There  were  moments  when, 


DREAMS      AND      VISIONS.  543 

but  for  the  sweet  shyness  that  is  ever  the  attendant  and  con- 
servator of  such  pure  feeling,  this  wild  desire  was  strong  enough 
to  cast  her  at  his  feet,  to  embrace  his  knees,  and  with  tears  be- 
seech him  to  let  her  into  that  dark,  sorrowful  bosom,  to  see  if 
she  could  make  any  light  and  joy  there.  She  feared  that  he 
had  sinned,  that  his  incurable  sorrow  was  the  gnawing  tooth 
ol  that  worm  that  never  dieth,  preying  on  his  heart ;  but  she 
doubted,  too,  for  what  could  he  have  done  to  plunge  his  soul 
in  such  a  hell  of  remorse  ?  He  commit  a  crime  ?  Impossible  ! 
the  thought  was  treason  ;  a  sin  to  be  repented  of  and  expiated. 
His  fame  was  fairest  of  the  fair,  his  name  most  honored  among 
the  honorable.  If  not  remorse,  what  then  was  the  nature  of 
his  life-long  sorrow  ?  Many,  many  times  she  revolved  this 
question  in  her  mind.  And  as  she  matured  in  thought  and 
affection,  the  question  grew  more  earnest  and  importunate. 
Oh  that  he  would  unburthen  his  heart  to  her  ;  oh  !  that  she 
might  share  and  alleviate  his  griefs.  If  "all  earnest  desires 
are  prayers,"  then  prayer  was  Miriam's  "vital  breath  and 
native  air"  indeed  ;  her  soul  earnestly  desired,  prayed,  to  be 
able  to  give  her  sorrowing  brother  peace. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

DREAMS      AND      VISIONS 

"Can  such  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder?" — Shakspeare. 

WINTER  waned.  Mrs.  "Waugh  had  attended  the  Commodore 
to  the  South,  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  and  they  had  not 
yet  returned. 

Mrs.  Morris  and  Alice  were  absent  on  a  long  visit  to  a  rela- 


544  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

live  in  Washington  City,  and  were  not  expected  back  for  a 
month.  Paul  remained  in  Baltimore,  attending  the  medical 
lectures. 

The  house  at  Dell-Delight  was  very  sad  and  lonely.  The 
family  consisted  of  only  Thurston,  Fanny  and  Miriam. 

The  spring  was  coming  on.  That  season,  which,  from  its  as- 
sociations, always  aggravated  the  mental  distress  of  Mr.  Will- 
coxen,  now  oppressed  him  with  unusual  sadness,  and  day  after 
day  he  immured  himself  in  his  study. 

A  change  had  also  passed  over  poor  Fanny's  malady.  She 
was  no  longer  the  quaint,  fantastical  creature,  half-lunatic,  half- 
seeress,  singing  snatches  of  wild  songs  through  the  bouse — now 
here,  now  there,  now  everywhere,  awaking  smiles  and  merri- 
ment in  spite  of  pity,  and  keeping  every  one  alive  about  her. 
Her  bodily  health  had  failed,  her  animal  spirits  departed ;  she 
never  sang  nor  smiled,  but  sat  all  day  in  her  eyrie  chamber, 
lost  in  deep  and  concentrated  study,  her  face  having  the  care- 
worn look  of  one  striving  to  recall  the  past,  to  gather  up  and 
reunite  the  broken  links  of  thought,  memory  and  understanding. 

Yes  !  the  bouse  was  very  sad  and  lonely  ;  the  material  atmos- 
phere was  overcast,  chill  and  gloomy;  the  spiritual  atmosphere 
still,  heavy,  oppressed,  as  foreboding  an  approaching  storm 

Perhaps  it  was  these  combined  causes  that  made  Miriam 
peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  grief  that  was  weighing  upon  the 
spirits  of  her  guardian.  Long  days  and  long  evenings  she  sat 
alone  at  her  work  table,  in  the  old  parlor,  brooding  over  the 
cause  of  his  wretchedness. 

At  last,  one  day,  she  received  a  letter  from  Paul,  announcing 
the  termination  of  the  winter's  course  of  lectures,  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  examination  of  medical  candidates,  the  successful 
issue  of  his  own  trial,  in  the  acquisition  of  his  diploma,  and 
finally  his  speedy  return  home. 

Miriam's  impulsive  nature  rebounded  from  all  depressing 
thoughts,  and  she  looked  forward  with  gladness  to  the  arrival 
of  Paul. 

He  came  towards  the  last  of  the  week. 


DREAMS      AND      VISIONS.  545 

Mr.  Willcoxeii,  roused  for  a  moment  from  his  sad  abstraction, 
gave  the  youth  a  warm  welcome. 

Miriam  received  him  with  a  bashful  blushing  joy. 

He  had  passed  through  Washington  City  on  his  way  home, 
and  had  spent  a  day  with  Mrs.  Morris  and  her  friends,  and  hi 
had  brought  away  strange  news  of  them. 

Alice,  he  said,  had  an  accepted  suitor,  and  would  probably 
be  a  bride  soon. 

A  few  days  after  Paul's  return,  he  sought  a  private  interview 
with  his  brother.  He  found  Mr.  Willcoxen  in  his  study, 
wrapped  in  dark  sorrow  as  in  a  garment. 

"  How  can  a  man  endure  such  a  life  year  after  year  ?" 
thought  Paul. 

But  the  errand  that  he  had  come  upon  soon  engaged  his  at- 
tention. He  spoke  to  his  brother,  and  at  the  friendly  bidding 
of  the  latter,  he  sat  down,  and  then,  after  much  hesitation, 
managed  to  make  known  his  wish  to  marry  Miriam. 

"  You  have  addressed  her  upon  this  subject  ?"  said  Mr 
Willcoxen. 

"  Xo,  sir — not  literally — no  words  have  passed  between  us, 
but  we  could  not  fail  to  know  each  other's  hearts.  I  love  her, 
sir,  and  I  am  sure  she — " 

Paul  arrested  himself;  he  was  too  modest  and  respectful  to 
finish  his  sentence. 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  you  are  sure  she  would  not  be  indif- 
ferent to  your  suit.  I  am  glad  to  believe  it,  Paul." 

And  the  melancholy  recluse  smiled  for  the  first  time  in  manj 
years. 

"  Then  I  have  your  consent  to  mention  this  to  Miriam  ?" 

"  Yes,  Paul.     When  do  you  wish  this  affair  to  come  off?" 

"  If  I  have  a  distinct  explanation  with  Miriam,"  said  practi- 
cal Paul,  I  think  I  could  better  bear  the  inevitable  delay.  Bu? 
1  do  not  wish  it  to  be  prolonged  beyond  the  time  when  I  shall 
secure  a  good  practice  in  this  neighborhood." 

"  And  that  would  be  a  long  time,  Paul.  'Paul,  you  know  it 
is  written  that  '  the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth,' 


546  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

and,  Pan!,  though  a  poet  wrote  it,  it  is  sober,  prosy,  daily 
truth,  as  far  as  my  observation  informs  me.  But,  my  dear  boy, 
there  are  very  few  rules  without  exceptions,  and  yours  and 
Miriam's  true  love  shall  be  the  exception  to  this  quoted  rule — 
its  course  shall  run  smooth  if  I  have  power  to  remove  obstruc 
tions — and  I  think  I  have.  There  is  no  absolute  necessity,  my 
dear  Paul,  that  you  should  wait  to  marry  until  you  can  secure 
a  professional  practice  here.  That  time,  with  even  your  best 
efforts,  will  be  distant  and  uncertain.  Miriam  will  be  seven- 
teen in  May.  Win  her  consent,  wait  a  year  longer  until  she 
shall  be  eighteen,  and  then  marry  her,  if  you  please.  All  that 
I  have  is  youi's  and  hers.  I  have  no  dearer  earthly  wish  than 
to  witness  your  happiness,  and  I  shall  thank  God  that  there  re- 
mains to  me  this  joy  of  hastening  its  completion." 

This  was  said  with  a  smile  intended  to  be  cheerful  and  en- 
couraging, but  which  was,  in  sober  truth,  so  sad  that  the  sight 
of  it,  together  with  the  thought  of  his  brother's  generosity, 
brought  the  tears  rushing  to  Paul's  eyes,  and  he  regarded  him 
with  mournful  earnestness. 

"  Go,  boy — go  1"  said  Thurston,  in  a  gentle  tone.  "  Go, 
and  if  you  wish  to  give  me  a  pleasurable  feeling,  win  Miriam's 
consent  to  be  your  bride,  and  let  me  know  when  you  are  be- 
trothed !" 

Paul  went  to  him  once  more,  took  and  pressed  his  hand,  and 
then  left  the  study,  and  went  to  seek  Miriam. 

He  found  her  in  the  old  wainscoted  parlor  seated  by  the  fire. 
She  appeared  to  be  in  deep  and  painful  thought.  Her  elbow 
rested  on  the  circular  work-table,  her  head  was  bowed  upon 
her  hand,  and  her  face  was  concealed  by  the  drooping  black 
ringlets. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear  sister?"  he  asked,  in  that  tender, 
'amiliar  tone,  with  which  he  sometimes  spoke  to  her. 

"  Oh,  Paul,  I  am  thinking  of  our  brother !  Can  nothing 
soothe  or  cheer  him,  Paul  ?  Can  nothing  help  him  ?  Can  we 
do  him  no  good  at  all  ?  Oh,  Paul !  I  brood  so  much  over  his 
trouble ! — I  long  so  much  to  comfort  him,  that  I  do  believe  it 


DREAMS      AND      VISIONS.  547 

is  beginning  to  affect  my  reason,  and  make  me  'see  visions  and 
dream  dreams.'  Tell  me — do  you  think  anything  can  be  done 
for  him  ?" 

"  Ah,  I  do  not  know !  I  have  just  left  his  study,  dear 
Miriam,  where  I  have  had  a  long  and  serious  conversation  with 
him." 

"And  what  was  it  about  ?     May  I  know  ?'' 

"  You  must  know,  dearest  Miriam,  it  concerned  yourself  and 
• — me  1"  said  Paul,  and  he  took  a  seat  by  her  side,  and  com- 
menced and  told  her  all  that  had  passed  during  his  interview 
with  Thurston  in  the  library. 

Miriam  replied, 

"  Paul,  there  is  one  secret  that  I  have  never  imparted  to 
you — not  that  I  wished  to  keep  it  from  you,  but  that  nothing 
has  occurred  to  call  it  out — " 

She  paused,  while  Paul  regarded  her  in  much  curiosity. 

"  What  is  it,  Miriam  ?"  he  at  last  inquired. 

"I  promised  my  dying  mother,  and  sealed  the  promise  with 
an  oath,  never  to  be  a  bride  until  I  shall  have  been — " 

"  What,  Miriam  ?» 

"  An  avenger  of  blood  !" 

"  MIRIAM  !" 

It  was  all  he  said,  and  then  he  remained  gazing  at  her,  as  if 
he  doubted  her  perfect  sanity. 

"  I  am  not  mad,  dear  Paul,  though  you  look  as  if  you 
thought  so." 

"  Explain  yourself,  dear  Miriam." 

"  I  am  going  to  do  so.  You  remember  Marian  Mayfield  ?'' 
she  said,  her  face  beginning  to  quiver  with  emotion. 

"Yes!  yes!  well?" 

"  You  remember  the  time  and  manner  of  her  death?" 

«  Yes— yes !" 

"  Oh !  Paul,  that  stormy  night  death  fell  like  scattering 
lightning,  and  struck  three  places  at  once!  But,  oh!  Paul, 
such  was  the  consternation  and  grief  excited  by  the  discovery 
of  Marian's  assassination,  that  the  two  other  sudden  deaths 


548  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

passed  almost  unnoticed,  except  by  the  respective  families  of  the 
deceased.  Child  as  I  then  was,  Paul,  I  think  it  was  the  tre- 
mendous shock  of  her  sudden  and  dreadful  death,  that  threw 
me  entirely  out  of  my  centre,  so  that  I  have  been  erratic  ever 
since.  She  was  more  than  a  mother  to  me,  Paul ;  and  if  I  had 
been  born  hers,  I  could  not  have  loved  her  better — I  loved  her 
beyond  all  things  in  life.  In  my  dispassionate,  reflective  mo- 
ments, I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  I  have  never  been  quite 
right  since  the  loss  of  Marian.  Not  but  that  I  am  reconciled 
to  it — knowing  that  she  must  be  happy — only,  Paul,  I  often  feel 
that  something  is  wrong  here  and  here,"  said  Miriam,  placing 
her  hand  upon  her  forehead  and  upon  her  heart. 

"  But  your  promise,  Miriam — your  promise,"  questioned 
Paul,  with  increased  anxiety. 

"  Aye  true !  Well,  Paul,  I  promised  to  devote  my  whole 
life  to  the  pursuit  and  apprehension  of  her  murderer;  and 
never  to  give  room  in  my  bosom  to  any  thought  of  love  or 
marriage,  until  that  murderer  should  hang  from  a  gallows ; 
and  I  sealed  that  promise  with  a  solemn  oath." 

"  That  was  all  very  strange,  dear  Miriam  " 

"  Paul,  yes  it  was — and  it  weighs  upon  me  like  lead.  Paul, 
if  two  things  could  be  lifted  off  my  heart,  I  should  be  happy. 
I  should  be  happy  as  a  freed  bird." 

"  And  what  are  they,  dear  Miriam  ?  What  weights  are  they 
that  I  have  not  power  to  lift  from  your  heart  ?" 

"  Surely  you  may  surmise — the  first  is  our  brother's  sadntss 
that  oppresses  my  spirits  all  the  time ;  the  second  is  the  me- 
mory of  that  unaccomplished  vow ;  so  equally  do  these  two 
anxieties  divide  my  thoughts,  that  they  seem  connected — seem 
to  be  parts  of  the  same  responsibility — and  I  even  dreamed 
tha":  the  one  could  be  accomplished  only  with  the  other." 

"  Dearest  Miriam,  let  me  assure  you,  that  such  dreams  and 
visions  are  but  the  effect  of  your  isolated  life — they  come  from 
an  over-heated  brain  and  over-strained  nerves.  And  you  must 
consent  to  throw  off  those  self-imposed  weights,  and  be  happy 
and  joyous,  as  a  young  creature  should." 


DREAMS      AND      VISIONS.  549 

"  Alas,  how  can  I  throw  them  oft',  dear  Paul?" 

"In  this  way — first  for  my  brother's  life-long  sorrow,  since 
you  can  neither  cure  nor  alleviate  it,  turn  your  thoughts  away 
from  it.  As  for  your  vow,  two  circumstances  combine  to  ab- 
solve you  from  it;  the  first  is  this — that  you  were  an  irrespon- 
sible infant,  when  you  were  required  to  make  it — the  second  is, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  perform  it;  these  two  considerations 
fairly  release  you  from  its  obligations.  Look  upon  these  mat- 
ters in  this  rational  light,  and  all  your  dark  and  morbid  dreams 
and  visions  will  disappear;  and  we  shall  have  you  joyous  as 
any  young  bird  sure  enough.  And  I  assure  you,  that  yout 
cheerfulness  will  be  one  of  the  very  best  medicines  for  our  bro- 
ther. Will  you  follow  ray  advice  ?•" 

"No,  no,  Paul!  I  cannot  follow  it  in  either  instance!  I 
cannot,  Paul!  it  is  impossible!  I  cannot  steel  my  heart 
against  sympathy  with  his  sorrows,  nor  can  I  so  ignore  the 
requirements  of  my  solemn  vow.  I  do  not  by  any  means  think 
its  accomplishment  an  impossibility,  nor  was  it  in  ignorance  of 
its  nature  that  I  made  it.  No,  Paul !  I  knew  what  I  promised, 
and  I  know  that  its  performance  is  possible.  Therefore  I  can- 
not feel  absolved!  I  must  accomplish  my  work;  and  you, 
Paul,  if  you  love  me,  must  help  me  to  do  it." 

"  I  would  serve  you  with  my  life,  Miriam,  in  anything  rea- 
sonable and  possible.  But  how  can  I  help  you?  How  can 
yon  discharge  such  an  obligation  ?  You  have  not  even  a  clue !" 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  clue,  Paul." 

"  You  have  ?  What  is  it  ?  Why  have  you  never  spoken 
of  it  before  ?" 

"  Because  of  its  seeming  unimportance.  The  clue  is  so 
slight,  that  it  would  be  considered  none  at  all,  by  others  less 
interested  than  myself." 

"  AVhat  is  it,  then  ?  At  least  allow  me  the  privilege  of 
knowing,  and  judging  of  its  importance." 

"I  am  about  to  do  so,"  said  Miriam,  and  she  commenced, 
and  told  him  all  she  knew,  and  also  all  she  suspected  of  tho 
circumstances  that  preceded  the  assassination  on  the  beach. 


550  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

In  conclusion,  she  informed  him  of  the  letters  in  her  pos- 
session. 

"  And  where  are  now  those  letters,  Miriam  ?  What  are 
they  like?  What  is  their  purport?  It  seems  to  me  that  they 
would  not  only  give  a  hint,  but  afford  direct  evidence  against 
that  demoniac  assassin.  And  it  seems  strange  to  me  that  tlicy 
were  not  examined,  with  a  view  to  that  end.'" 

"  Paul,  they  were ;  but  they  did  not  point  out  the  writer, 
even.  There  was  a  note  among  them — a  note  soliciting  a 
meeting  with  Marian,  upon  the  very  evening,  and  upon  the 
very  spot  when  and  where  the  murder  was  committed !  But 
that  note  contains  nothing  to  indicate  the  identity  of  its  author. 
There  are,  besides,  a  number  of  foreign  letters  written  iu 
French,  and  signed  '  Thomas  Truman,'  no  French  name, 
by-the-bye,  a  circumstance  which  leads  me  to  believe  that  it 
must  have  been  an  assumed  one." 

"  And  those  French  letters  give  no  indication  of  the  writer, 
either  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sufficiently  acquainted  with  that  language  to  read 
it  in  manuscript,  which  you  know  is  much  more  difficult  than 
print.  But  I  presume  they  point  to  nothing  definite!}',  for  my 
dear  mother  showed  them  to  Mr.  Willcoxen,  who  took  the 
greatest  interest  in  the  discovery  of  the  murderer,  and  he  told 
her  that  those  letters  afforded  not  the  slightest  clue  to  the  per- 
petrator of  the  crime,  and  that  whoever  might  have  been  the 
assassin,  it  certainly  could  not  have  been  the  author  of  those 
letters.  He  wished  to  take  them  with  him,  but  mother  de- 
clined to  give  them  up,  she  thought  it  would  be  disrepect  to 
Marian's  memory  to  give  her  private  correspondence  up  to  a 
stranger,  and  so  she  told  him.  He  then  said  that  of  all  men, 
certainly,  he  had  the  least  right  to  claim  them,  and  so  the  mat- 
ter rested.  But  mother  always  believed  they  held  the  key  to 
the  discovery  of  the  guilty  party;  and  afterward  she  left  them 
to  me,  with  the  charge  that  I  should  never  suffer  them  to  pass 
from  my  possession  until  they  had  fulfilled  their  destiny  of  wit- 
nessing against  the  murderer — for  whatever  Mr.  Willcoxeti 


DREAMS      AND      VISIONS.  551 

might  think,  mother  felt  convinced  that  the  writer  of  those  let- 
ters and  the  murderer  of  Marian  was  the  same  person." 

"  Tell  me  more  about  those  letters." 

"  Dear  Paul,  I  know  nothing  more  about  them ;  I  told  yon 
that  I  was  not  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  French  language  to 
read  them." 

"  But  it  is  strange  that  yon  never  made  yourself  acquainted 
with  their  contents  by  getting  some  one  else  to  read  them  for 
you." 

"  Dear  Paul,  you  know  that  I  was  a  mere  child  when  they 
first  came  into  my  possession,  accompanied  with  the  charge  that 
I  should  never  part  with  them  until  they  had  done  their  office. 
I  felt  bound  by  my  promise,  I  was  afraid  of  losing  them,  and 
of  those  persons  that  I  could  trust  none  knew  French  except 
our  brother,  and  he  had  already  pronounced  them  irrelevant  to 
the  question.  Besides,  for  many  reasons,  I  was  shy  of  intrud- 
ing upon  brother." 

"Does  he  know  that  you  have  the  packet?" 

"I  suppose  he  does  not  even  know  that.'" 

"I  confess,"  said  Paul,  "that  if  Thurston  believed  them  to 
have  no  connection  with  the  murder,  I  have  so  much  confidence 
in  his  excellent  judgment,  that  I  am  inclined  to  reverse  my 
hasty  opinion,  and  to  think  as  he  does,  at  least  until  I  see  the 
letters.  I  remember,  too,  that  the  universal  opinion  at  the  time 
was  that  the  poor  young  lady  had  fallen  a  victim  to  some  ma- 
rauding waterman — the  most  likely  thing  to  have  happened. 
But.  to  satisfy  you,  Miriam,  if  you  will  trust  me  with  those  let- 
ters, I  will  give  them  a  thorough  and  impartial  study,  and  then 
if  I  find  no  clue  to  the  perpetrator  of  that  diabolical  deed,  I 
hope,  Miriam,  that  you  will  feel  yourself  free  from  the  responsi- 
bility of  pursuing  the  unknown  demon — a  pursuit  which  I  con- 
sider worse  than  a  wild  goose  chase." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  boy  with  the 
mail  bag.  Paul  emptied  the  contents  cf  it  upon  the  table. 
There  were  letters  for  Mr.  Willcoxen,  for  Miriam,  and  for  Paul 
himself.  Those  for  Mr.  WillcoxcMi  were  sent  up  to  him  by  the 


552  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

boy.  Miriam's  letter  was  from  Alice  Morris,  announcing;  her 
approaching  marriage  with  Oliver  Murray,  a  young  lawyer  of 
Washington,  and  inviting  and  entreating  Miriam  to  come  to 
the  city  and  be  her  bridesmaid.  Paul's  letters  were  from  some 
of  his  medical  classmates.  By  the  time  they  had  read  and  dis- 
cussed the  contents  of  their  epistles,  a  servant  came  in  to  re- 
plenish the  fire  and  lay  the  cloth  for  tea. 

When  Mr.  Willcoxen  joined  them  at  supper,  he  laid  a  letter 
on  Miriam's  lap,  informing  her  that  it  was  from  Mrs.  Morris, 
who  advised  them  of  her  daughter's  intended  marriage,  and 
prayed  them  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony.  Miriam  replied 
that  she  had  received  a  communication  to  the  same  effect. 

"  Then,  my  dear,  we  will  go  up  to  Washington  and  pass  a 
few  weeks,  and  attend  this  wedding,  and  see  the  inauguration 

of  Gen. .  You  lead  too  lonely  a  life  for  one  of  your 

years,  love.  I  see  it  affects  your  health  and  spirits.  I  have 
been  too  selfish  and  oblivious  of  you,  in  my  abstraction,  dear 
child ;  but  it  shall  be  so  no  longer.  You  shall  enter  upon  the 
life  better  suited  to  your  age." 

Miriam's  eyes  thanked  his  care.  For  many  a  day  Thurston 
had  not  come  thus  far  out  of  himself,  and  his  doing  so  now  was 
hailed  as  a  happy  omen  by  the  young  people. 

Their  few  preparations  were  soon  completed,  and  on  the  Erst 
ol  March  they  went  to  Washington  City. 


CHAPTER    XLIL 

DISCOVERIES. 

"  And  all  too  soon  she  sought  and  found, 
In  many  a  talc  from  those  around 
The  proof  of  all  she  feared  to  know, 
His  present  guilt,  their  future  woe. 
All  circumstance  that  may  compel 
Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell ; 
And  now  her  tortured  heart  and  ear 
Have  nothing  more  to  feel  or  fear." 

ir\  arriving  at  Washington,  our  party  drove  immediately  to 
the  Mansion  House,  where  they  had  previously  secured  rooms. 

The  city  was  full  of  strangers  from  all  parts  of  the  country, 
drawn  together  by  the  approaching  inauguration  of  one  of  the 
most  popular  Presidents  that  ever  occupied  the  White  House. 

As  soon  as  our  party  made  known  their  arrival  to  their  friends, 
they  were  inundated  with  calls  and  invitations.  Brother  clergy- 
men called  upon  Mr.  Willcoxen,  and  pressed  upon  him  the  free- 
dom of  their  houses.  Alice  Morris,  and  Mrs.  Moulton,  the 
relative  with  whom  she  was  staying,  called  upon  Miriam,  and 
insisted  that  she  should  go  home  with  them  to  remain  until  after 
the  wedding.  But  these  offers  of  hospitality  were  gratefully 
declined  by  the  little  set,  who  preferred  to  remain  together  at 
their  hotel. 

The  whole  scene  of  metropolitan  life,  in  its  most  stirring 
aspect,  was  entirely  new  and  highly  interesting  to  our  rustic 
beauty.  Amusements  of  every  description  were  rife.  The 
theatres,  exhibition  halls,  saloons  and  concert  rooms  held  out 
their  most  attractive  temptations,  and  night  after  night  were 
crowded  with  the  gay  votaries  of  fashion  and  of  pleasure. 
While  the  churches,  and  lyceums,  and  lecture-rooms  had  greater 
charms  for  the  more  seriously  inclined.  The  old  and  the  young, 
the  grave  and  the  gay,  found  no  lack  of  occupation,  amusement 

(553) 


554  THE      MISSING      BEIDE. 

and  instruction  to  suit  their  several  tastes  or  varying  moods. 
The  second  week  of  their  visit,  the  marriage  of  Alice  Morris 
and  Oliver  Murray  came  off,  Miriam  serving  as  bridesmaid, 
Dr.  Douglass  as  groomsman,  and  Mr.  Willcoxen  as  officiating 
minister. 

But  it  is  not  with  these  marriage  festivities  that  we  have  to 
do,  but  with  the  scenes  that  immediately  succeed  them. 

From  the  time  of  Mr.  Willcoxen's  arrival  in  the  city,  he  had 
not  ceased  to  exercise  his  sacred  calling.  His  fame  had  long 
before  preceded  him  to  the  capital,  and  since  his  coming  he  had 
been  frequently  solicited  to  preach  and  to  lecture. 

Xot  from  love  of  notoriety — not  from  any  such  ill-placed  vain 
glory,  but  from  the  wish  to  relieve  some  overtasked  brother  of 
the  heat  and  burden  of  at  least  one  day ;  and  possibly  by  pre- 
senting truth  in  a  newer  and  stronger  light  to  do  some  good, 
did  Thurston  Willcoxen,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  and  evening 
after  evening,  preach  in  the  churches  or  lecture  before  the  Ly- 
ceum. Crowds  flocked  to  hear  him,  the  press  spoke  highly  of 
his  talents  and  his  eloquence,  the  people  warmly  echoed  the 
opinion,  and  Mr.  Willcoxen,  against  his  inclination,  became  the 
clerical  celebrity  of  the  day. 

But  from  all  this  unsought  world-worship  he  turned  away  a 
weary,  sickened,  sorrowing  man. 

There  was  but  one  thing  in  all  "the  world  outside"  that  strongly 
interested  him — it  was  a  "still  small  voice,"  a  low-toned,  sweet 
music,  keeping  near  the  dear  mother  earth  and  her  humble  chil- 
dren, yet  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  sphere  to  sphere — it  was 
the  name  of  a  lady,  young,  lovely,  accomplished  and  wealthy, 
who  devoted  herself,  her  time,  her  talents  and  her  fortune,  to 
the  cause  of  suffering  humanity. 

This  young  lady,  whose  beauty,  goodness,  wisdom,  eloquence 
and  powers  of  persuasion  were  rumored  to  be  almost  miraculous, 
had  founded  schools  and  asylums,  and  had  collected  by  sub- 
scription a  large  amount  of  money,  with  which  she  was  coming 
to  America,  to  select  and  purchase  a  tract  of  laud  to  settle  a 
colony  of  the  London  poor.  This  angel  girl's  name  and  fume 


DISCOVEHIES.  555 

was  a  low,  sweet  ecno,  as  I  said  before — never  noisy,  never 
rising  high — keeping  near  the  ground.  People  spoke  of  her 
in  quiet  places,  and  dropped  their  voices  to  gentle  tones  in 
mentioning  her  and  her  works.  Such  was  the  spell  it  exercised 
over  them.  This  lady's  name  possessed  the  strangest  fascina- 
tion for  Thurston  Willcoxen — he  read  eagerly,  whatever  wa3 
written  of  her — he  listened  with  interest,  to  whatever  was  spoken 
of  her.  Her  name  !  it  was  that  of  his  loved  and  lost  Marian ! — 
that  in  itself  was  a  spell,  but  that  was  not  the  greatest  charm — 
her  character  resembled  that  of  his  Marian  1 

"  How  like  my  Marian  ?"  would  often  be  the  language  of  his 
heart,  when  hearing  of  her  deeds.  "  Even  so  would  my  Marian 
have  done — had  she  been  born  to  fortune — as  this  lady  was." 

The  name  was  certainly  common  enough,  yet  the  similarity 
of  both  names  and  natures  inclined  him  to  the  opinion  that  this 
angel-woman  must  be  some  distant  and  more  fortunate  relative 
of  his  own  lost  Marian.  He  felt  drawn  towards  the  unknown 
lady  by  a  strange  and  almost  irresistible  attraction — and  he 
secretly  resolved  to  see  and  know  her,  and  pondered  in  his  heart 
ways  and  means  by  which  he  might  with  propriety  seek  her 
acquaintance. 

While  thus  he  lived  two  lives — the  outer  life  of  work  and 
usefulness,  and  the  inner  life  of  thought  and  suffering — the 
young  people  of  his  party,  hoping  and  believing  him  to  be  en- 
joying the  honors  heaped  upon  him,  yielded  themselves  up  to 
the  attractions  of  society. 

Miriam  spent  much  of  her  time  with  her  friend,  Alice  Murray. 

One  morning,  when  she  called  on  Alice,  the  latter  invited  her 
visitor  up  into  her  own  chamber,  and  seating  her  there,  said, 
with  a  mysterious  air, 

"  Do  you  know,  Miriam,  that  I  have  something — the  strangest 
-hing  that  ever  was — that  I  have  been  wanting  to  tell  you  for 
three  or  four  days,  only  I  never  got  an  opportunity  to  do  so, 
because  Oily  or  some  one  was  always  present  ?  But  now  Oily 
has  gone  to  court,  and  mother  has  gone  to  market,  and  you  and 
I  can  have  a  cozy  chat  to  ourselves." 


556  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

i 

She  stopped  to  stir  the  fire,  and  Miriam  quietly  waited  for 
her  to  proceed. 

"  Now,  why  in  the  world  don't  you  ask  me  for  my  secret  ?  I 
declare  you  take  so  lit.tle  interest,  and  show  so  little  curiosity, 
that  it  is  not  a  bit  of  fun  to  hint  a  mystery  to  you.  Do  you 
want  to  hear,  or  don't  you  ?  I  assure  you  it  is  a  tremendous 
revelation,  and  it  concerns  you,  too  !" 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?     I  am  anxious  to  hear  ?" 

"Oh!  you  do  begin  to  show  a  little  interest;  and  now,  to 
punish  you,  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  tell  you  ;  however,  I 
will  take  pity  upon  your  suspense  ;  but  first  you  must  promise 
never,  never,  n-e-v-e-r  to  mention  it  again — will  you  promise?" 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  then,  listen.  Stop!  get  a  good  place  to  faint  first, 
and  then  listen.  Are  you  ready  ?  One,  two,  three,  fire.  The 
Reverend  Thurston  Willcoxen  is  a  married  man  1" 

"  What !» 

"Mr.  Thurston  Willcoxen  has  been  married  for  eight  years 
past." 

"Pshaw!" 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen  was  married  eight  years  ago,  this  spring,  at 
a  little  Methodist  chapel  near  the  navy  yard  of  this  city,  and 
by  an  old  Methodist  preacher,  of  the  name  of  John  Berry." 

"  You  are  certainly  mad  !" 

"I  am  not  mad,  most  noble  'doubter,'  but  speak  the  words 
of  truth  and  soberness.  Mr.  Willcoxen  was  married  privately, 
when  and  where  I  said,  to  a  beautiful  fair-haired  lady,  whose 
name  heard  in  the  ritual,  was  Marian.  And  my  husband,  Oily 
Murray,  was  the  secret  witness  of  that  private  marriage." 

A  wild  scream,  that  seemed  to  split  the  heart  from  whence  it 
arose,  broke  from  the  lips  of  Miriam — springing  forward,  she 
grasped  the  wrist  of  Alice,  and  with  her  wild  eyes  starting, 
straining  from  their  sockets,  gazed  into  her  face,  crying, 

"  Tell  me  I  tell  me !  that  you  have  jested  !  tell  me  that  you 
have  lied  ?  Speak  !  speak  !" 

"I  told  you  the  Lord's  blessed  truth,  and  Oily  knows  it. 


DISCOVERIES.  557 

But,  Miriam,  for  goodness  sake  don't  look  that  way — you  scare 
me  almost  to  death  1  And  whatever  you  do,  never  let  anybody 
know  that  I  told  you  this ;  because,  if  you  did,  Oily  would  be 
vc.ry  much  grieved  at  me ;  for  he  confided  it  to  me  as  a  dead 
Bev.ret,  and  bound  me  up  to  secresy,  too;  but  I  thought  as  it 
concerned  you  so  much,  it  would  be  no  harm  to  tell  you,  if  you 
would  not  tell  it  again  ;  and  so  when  I  was  promising,  I  made 
a  mental  reservation  in  favor  of  yourself.  And  so  I  have  told 
you  ;  and  now  you  mustn't  betray  me,  Miriam," 

"  It  is  false !  all  that  you  have  told  me  is  false  !  say  that  it 
is  false  !  tell  me  so  !  speak  !  speak  I"  cried  Miriam,  wildly. 

"It  is  not  false — at  is  true  as  Gospel,  every  word  of  it — nor 
is  it  any  mistake.  Because  Oily  saw  the  whole  thing,  and  told 
me  all  about  it.  The  way  of  it  was,  that  Oily  overheard  them 
in  the  congressional  library  arranging  the  marriage — the  gen- 
tleman was  going  to  depart  for  Europe,  and  wished  to  secure 
the  lady's  hand  before  he  went — and  at  the  same  time,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  he  wished  the  marriage  to  be  kept  secret. 
Oily  owns  that  it  was  none  of  his  business,  but  that  curiosity 
got  the  upper  hand  of  him,  so  he  listened,  and  he  heard  them 
call  each  other  '  Thurston'  and  '  Marian' — and  when  they  left 
the  library,  he  followed  them — and  so,  unseen,  he  witnessed  the 
private  marriage  ceremony,  at  which  they  still  answered  to  the 
names  of  '  Thurston'  and  '  Marian.'  He  did  not  hear  their  sur- 
names. He  never  saw  the  bride  again  ;  and  he  never  saw  the 
bridegroom  until  he  saw  Mr.  Willcoxen  at  our  wedding.  The 
moment  Oily  saw  him  he  knew  that  he  had  seen  him  before,  but 
could  not  call  to  mind  when  or  where ;  and  the  oftener  he 
looked  at  him,  the  more  convinced  he  became  that  he  had 
seen  him  first  under  some  very  singular  circumstances.  And 
when  at  last  he  heard  bis  first  name  called  '  Thurston,'  the 
whole  truth  flashed  on  him  at  once.  He  remembered  every- 
thing connected  with  the  mysterious  marriage.  I  wonder  what 
Mr.  Willcoxen  has  done  with  his  Marian  ?  or  whether  she  died 
or  whether  she  lives  ?  or  where  he  hides  her  ?  Well,  some 
men  arc  a  mystery — don't  you  think  so,  Marian  ?'' 
35 


558  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

But  only  deep  and  shuddering  groans,  upheaving  from  the 
poor  girl's  bosom,  answered  her. 

"  Miriam  !  Oh,  don't  go  on  so!  what  do  you  mean  ?  Indeed, 
yo-.i  alarm  me  !  oh,  don't  take  it  so  to  heart !  indeed,  /wouldn't, 
if  I  were  you!  I  should  think  it  the  funniest  kind  of  funl 
Miriam,  I  say !" 

She  answered  not — she  had  sunk  down  on  the  floor,  utterly 
crushed  by  the  weight  of  misery  that  had  fallen  upon  her. 

"Miriam!  now  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean  by  this  ? 
Why  do  you  yield  so  ?  /would  not  do  it !  I  know  it  is  bad 
to  be  disappointed  of  an  expected  inheritance,  and  to  find  out 
that  some  one  else  has  a  greater  claim,  but,  indeed,  /would  not 
take  it  to  heart  so,  if  /  were  you.  Why,  if  he  is  married,  he 
may  not  have  a  family,  and  even  if  he  has,  he  may  not  utterly 
disinherit  you,  and  even  if  he  should,  I  would  not  grieve  myself 
to  death  about  it  if  I  were  you  !  Miriam,  look  up,  I  say !" 

But  the  hapless  girl  replied  not,  heard  not,  heeded  not;  deaf, 
blind,  insensible  was  she  to  all — everything  but  to  that  sharp, 
mental  grief,  that  seemed  so  like  physical  pain — that  fierce  an- 
guish of  the  breast,  that,  like  an  iron  hand,  seemed  to  clutch 
and  close  upon  her  heart — tighter,  tighter,  tighter,  until  it 
stopped  the  current  of  her  blood,  and  arrested  her  breath,  and 
threw  her  into  convulsions. 

Alice  sprang  to  raise  her,  then  ran  down  stairs  to  procure 
restoratives  and  assistance.  In  the  front  hall  she  met  Doctor 
Douglass,  who  had  just  been  admitted  by  the  waiter.  To  his 
pleasant  greeting,  she  replied  hastily,  breathlessly, 

"Oh,  Paul!  come — come  quickly  up  stairs!  Miriam  lias 
fallen  into  convulsions,  and  I  am  frightened  out  of  my  senses!" 

"  What  caused  her  illness  ?"  asked  Paul,  in  alarm  and  anxiety, 
as  he  ran  up  stairs,  preceded  by  Alice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  (It  could  not  have  been  what  I  said 
to  her,  and  if  it  was,  I  must  not  tell,)  added  Alice,  as  she 
opened  the  door  and  ushered  him  into  the  chamber. 

The  details  of  sickness  are  never  interesting.  I  shall  not 
dwell  upon  Miriam's  illness  of  several  weeks ;  the  doctors  pro 


DISCOVERIES.  559 

liounctvl  it  to  be  angina  pectoris — a  fearful  and  often  fatal 
lomplahit,  brought  on  in  those  constitutionally  predisposed  to 
it,  by  any  sp.cUIen  shock  to  mind  or  body.  What  could  have 
caused  its  atta-.k  upon  Miriam,  they  could  not  imagine.  And 
Alice  Murray,  iu  fe&r  and  doubt,  held  her  tongue  and  kept  her 
own  counsel.  In  all  her  illness,  Miriam's  reason  was  not  for  a 
moment  clouded-  -it  seemed  preternaturally  awake ;  but  she 
spoke  not,  and  it  <vas  observed  that  if  Mr.  Willcoxen,  who  was 
overwhelmed  witl-  distress  by  her  dreadful  illness,  approached 
tier  bedside  and  touched  her  person,  she  instantly  fell  into 
spasms.  In  grief  and  dismay,  Thurston's  eyes  asked  of  all 
around  an  explanation  of  this  strange  and  painful  phenomenon  ; 
but  none  could  tell  him,  except  the  doctor,  who  pronounced  it 
the  natural  effect  of  the  excessive  nervous  irritability  attending 
ber  disease,  and  urged  Mr.  Willcoxen  to  keep  away  from  her 
chamber.  And  Thurston  sadly  complied. 

Youth,  and  an  elastic  constitution,  prevailed  over  disease, 
and  Miriam  was  raised  from  the  bed  of  death ;  but  so  changed 
in  person  and  in  manner,  that  you  would  scarcely  have  recog- 
nized her.  She  was  thinner,  but  not  paler — an  intense,  con- 
suming fiv'c  burned  in  and  out  upon  her  cheek,  and  smoul- 
dered and  i\shed  from  her  eye.  Self-concentrated  and  re- 
served, she  replied  not  at  all,  or  only  in  monosyllables,  to 
the  words  addvraed  to  her,  and  withdrew  more  into  herself. 

At  length,  Doctor  Douglass  advised  their  return  home. 
And  therefore  th.y  set  out,  and  upon  the  last  of  March,  ap- 
proached Dell-Dr..ight. 

The  sky  was  o^ercnst,  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow, 
the  weather  was  /tamp,  and  very  cold  for  the  last  of  March. 
As  evening  drew  on,  and  the  leaden  sky  lowered,  and  the  chill 
dump  penetrated  the  comfortable  carriage  in  which  they  traveled 
Mr.  Willcoxen  redoubled  his  attentions  to  Miriam,  carefully 
wrapping  her  cloak  and  furs  about  her,  and  letting  down  thj 
leathern  blinds  and  the  damask  hangings,  to  exclude  the  cold ; 
but  Miriam  shrank  from  his  touch,  and  shivered  more  than 
before,  and  drew  closely  into  her  own  corner. 


560  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"Poor  child,  the  cold  nips  and  shrivels  her  as  it  does  a 
tropical  flower,"  said  Thurston,  desisting  from  his  efforts  after 
he  had  tucked  a  woolen  shawl  around  her  feet. 

"  It  is  really  very  unseasonable  weather — there  is  snow  in  the 
atmosphere.  I  don't  wonder  it  pinches  Miriam,"  said  Paul 
Douglass. 

Ah !  they  did  not  either  of  them  know  that  it  was  a  spiritual 
fever  and  ague  alternately  burning  and  freezing  her  very  heart's 
blood — hope  and  fear,  love  and  loathing,  pity  and  horror,  that 
striving  together  made  a  pandemonium  of  her  young  bosom. 
Like  a  flight  of  fiery  arrows  came  the  coincidences  of  the  tale 
she  had  heard,  and  the  facts  she  knew.  That  spring,  eight 
years  before,  Mr.  Murray  said  he  had,  unseen,  witnessed  the 
marriage  of  Thurston  Willcoxen  and  Marian.  That  spring, 
eight  years  before,  she  knew  Mr.  Willcoxen  and  Miss  Mayfield 
had  been  together  on  a  visit  to  the  capital.  Thurston  had  gone 
to  Europe,  Marian  had  returned  home,  but  had  never  seemed 
the  same  since  her  visit  to  the  city.  The  very  evening  of  the 
house-warming  at  Luckenough,  where  Marian  had  betrayed  so 
much  emotion,  Thurston  had  suddenly  returned,  and  presented 
himself  at  that  manison.  Yet  in  all  the  months  that  followed, 
she  had  never  seen  Thurston  and  Marian  together.  Thurston 
was  paying  marked  and  constant  attentions  to  Miss  Le  Roy, 
while  Marian's  heart  was  consuming  with  a  secret  sorrow  and 
anxiety  that  she  refused  to  communicate  even  to  Edith.  How 
distinctly  came  back  to  her  mind  those  nights  when,  lying  by 
Marian's  side,  she  had  put  her  hand  over  upon  her  face  and 
felt  the  tears  on  her  cheeks.  Those  tears !  the  recollection  of 
them  now,  and  in  this  connection,  filled  her  heart  with  indc- 
scribable  emotion.  Her  mother,  too,  had  died  in  the  belief  thnt 
Marian  had  fallen  by  the  hands  of  her  lover  or  her  husband 
Lastly,  upon  the  same  night  of  Marian's  murder,  Thurston 
Willcoxen  had  been  unaccountably  absent,  during  the  whole 
night,  from  the  death-bed  of  his  grandfather.  And  then  his 
incurable  melancholy  from  that  day  to  this — his  melancholy 
augmented  to  anguish  at  the  annual  return  of  this  season 


DISCOVERIES.  561 

And  then  rising,  in  refutation  of  all  this  evidence,  was  his 
own  irreproachable  life  and  elevated  character. 

Ah !  but  she  had — young1  as  she  was,  heard  of  such  cases 
before — how  in  some  insanity  of  selfishness  or  frenzy  of  passion, 
a  crime  had  been  perpetrated  by  one  previously  and  afterwards 
irreproachable  in  conduct.  Piercing  wound  after  wound  smote 
these  thoughts  like  swift  coming  arrows. 

A  young,  immature  woman,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  in  whose 
warm  nature  passion  and  imagination  so  largely  predominated 
over  intellect,  was  but  too  liable  to  have  her  reason  shaken  from 
its  seat  by  the  ordeal  through  which  she  was  forced  to  go. 

As  night  descended,  and  they  drew  near  Dell-Delight,  the 
storm  that  had  been  lowering  all  the  afternoon  came  upon  them. 
The  wind,  the  hail,  and  the  snow,  and  the  snow-drifts  continually 
forming,  rendered  the  roads,  that  were  never  very  good,  now 
nearly  impassable. 

More  and  more  obstructed,  difficult  and  unrecognizable 
became  their  way,  until  at  last,  when  within  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
from  the  house,  the  horses  stepped  off  the  road  into  a  covered 
gully,  and  the  carriage  was  overturned  and  broken. 

"Miriam!  dear  Miriam!  dear  child,  are  you  hurt?"  was  the 
first  anxious  exclamation  of  both  gentlemen. 

No  one  was  injured  ;  the  coach  lay  upon  its  left  side,  and  the 
right  side  door  was  over  their  heads.  Paul  climbed  out  first, 
and  then  gave  his  hand  to  Mariarn,  whom  Mr.  Willcoxen 
assisted  up  to  the  window.  Lastly  followed  Thurston.  The 
horses  had  kicked  themselves  free  of  the  carriage,  and  stood 
kicking  yet. 

"  Two  wheels  and  the  pole  are  broken — nothing  can  be  done 
t>  remove  the  carriage  to-night.  Yon  had  better  leave  the 
horses  where  they  are,  Paul,  and  let  us  huriy  on  to  get  Miriam 
under  shelter  first,  then  we  can  send  some  one  to  fetch  them 
home." 

They  were  near  the  park  gate,  and  the  road  from  there  to 
the  mansion  was  very  good.  Paul  was  busy  in  bundling  Miriam 
up  in  her  cloak,  shawls  and  furs.  And  then  Mr.  Willcoxen, 


662  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

approached  to  raise  her  in  his  arms,  and  take  her  through  the 
snow ;  but, 

"  Xo  !  no!  "said  Miriam,  shuddering  and  crouching  closely 
\o  Paul.  Little  knowing  her  thoughts,  Mr.  Willcoxen  slightly 
smiled,  and  pulling  his  hat  low  over  his  eyes,  and  turning  up 
his  fur  collar  and  wrapping  his  cloak  closely  around  him,  he 
strode  on  rapidly  before  them.  The  snow  was  blowing  in  their 
faces,  but  drawing  Miriam  fondly  to  his  side,  Paul  hurried  aher 
him. 

When  they  reached  the  park  gate,  Thurston  was  laboring  vo 
open  it  against  the  drifted  snow.  He  succeeded,  and  pushed 
the  gate  back  to  let  them  pass.  Miriam,  as  she  went  through, 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  form. 

There  he  stood,  in  night  and  storm,  his  tall  form  shrouded 
in  the  long  black  cloak — the  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  the  faint 
spectral  gleam  of  the  snow  striking  upward  to  his  clear-cut  pro- 
file, the  peculiar  fall  of  ghostly  light  and  shade,  the  strong  indi- 
viduality of  air  and  attitude. 

With  a  half-stifled  shriek,  Miriam  recognized  the  distinct 
picture  of  the  man  she  had  seen  twice  before  with  Marian. 

"What  is  the  matter,  love?  Were  you  near  falling?  Give 
me  your  arm,  Miriam — you  need  us  both  to  help  you  through 
this  storm,"  said  Thurston,  approaching  her. 

But  with  a  shiver  that  ran  through  all  her  frame,  Miriam 
shrank  closer  to  Paul,  who,  with  affectionate  pride,  renewed  his 
care,  and  promised  that  she  should  not  slip  again. 

So  link  after  link  of  the  fearful  evidence  wound  itself  around 
her  consciousness,  which  struggled  against  it,  like  Laocoon  in 
the  fatal  folds  of  the  serpent. 

Now  cold  as  if  the  blood  were  turned  to  ice  in  her  veins — 
now  burning  as  if  they  ran  fire — she  was  hurried  on  into  the 
Louse. 

They  were  expected  home,  and  old  Jenny  had  fires  in  all  the 
occupied  rooms,  and  supper  ready  to  go  on  the  table,  that  Araa 
prepared  in  the  parlor. 

But  Miriam  refused  all  refreshment,  and  hurried  to  her  room 


DISCOVERIES.  563 

Ft  was  warmed  and  lighted  by  old  Jenny's  care,  and  the  good 
creature  followed  her  young  mistress  with  affectionate  proffers 
of  aid. 

"  Wouldn't  she  have  a  strong  cup  of  tea  ?  Wouldn't  she  have 
a  hot  bath  ?  Wouldn't  she  have  her  bed  warmed  ?  Wouldn't 
she  have  a  bowl  of  nice  hot  mulled  wine  ?  Dear,  dear !  she 
was  so  sorry,  but  it  would  have  frightened  herself  to  death 
if  the  carriage  had  upset  with  her,  and  no  wonder  Miss  Miriam 
was  knocked  up  entirely." 

"Xo,  no,  no  !" 

Miriam  would  have  nothing,  and  old  Jenny  reluctantly  left 
her — to  repose  ?  Ah,  no !  with  fever  in  her  veins  to  walk  up  and 
down  and  up  and  down  the  floor  of  her  room  with  fearful  unrest. 
Up  and  down,  until  the  candle  burned  low,  and  sunk  drowned 
in  its  socket ;  until  the  fire  on  the  hearth  smouldered  and  went 
out ;  until  the  stars  in  the  sky  waned  with  the  coming  day ; 
until  the  rising  sun  kindled  all  the  eastern  horizon ;  and  then, 
uttired  as  she  was,  she  sank  upon  the  outside  of  her  bed,  and 
fell  into  a  heavy  sleep  of  exhaustion. 

She  arose  unrefreshed,  and  after  a  hasty  toilet  descended  to 
the  breakfast  parlor,  where  she  knew  the  little  family  awaited 
her. 

"The  journey  and  the  fright  have  been  too  much  for  you, 
love  ;  you  look  very  weary  ;  you  should  have  rested  longer  this 
morning,"  said  Mr.  Willcoxen  affectionately,  as  he  arose  and 
met  her,  and  led  her  to  the  most  comfortable  seat  near  the  fire. 

His  fine  countenance,  elevated,  grave  and  gentle  in  expression, 
his  kind  and  loving  manner,  smote  all  the  tender  chords  of 
Miriam's  heart. 

Could  that  man  be  guilty  of  the  crime  she  had  dared  to  suspecr; 
him  off 

Oh,  no,  no,  no!  never!  every  lineament  of  his  face,  every 
inflection  of  his  voice,  as  well  as  every  act  of  his  life,  and  every 
trait  of  his  character,  forbade  the  dreadful  imputation ! 

But  then  the  evidence!  the  damning  evidence!  Her  brain 
reeled  with  the  doubt  as  she  sank  into  the  seat  he  offered  her. 


5G4  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Ring  for  breakfast,  Paul !  Our  little  housekeeper  will  feel 
better  when  she  gets  a  cup  of  coffee." 

But  Miriam  sprang  up  to  anticipate  him ;  and  drew  her  chair 
to  the  table,  and  nervously  began  to  arrange  the  cups  and  put 
sugar  and  cream  into  them,  with  the  vague  feeling  that  she  must 
act  as  usual  to  avoid  calling  observation  upon  herself,  for  if  ques- 
tioned, how  could  she  answer  inquiries,  and  who  could  she 
make  a  confidant  in  her  terrible  suspicions  ? 

And  so  through  the  breakfast  scene,  and  so  through  the  whole 
day  she  sought  to  exercise  self-control.  But  could  her  distress 
escape  the  anxious,  penetrating  eyes  of  affection  ?  That  even- 
ing, after  tea,  when  Mr.  Willcoxen  had  retired  to  his  own  apart- 
ment, and  the  waiter  had  replenished  the  fire  and  trimmed  the 
lamps  and  retired,  leaving  the  young  couple  alone  in  the  parlor 
— Miriam  sitting  on  one  side  of  the  circular  work-table  bending 
over  her  sewing,  and  Paul  on  the  other  side  with  a  book  in  his 
hand,  he  suddenly  laid  the  volume  down,  and  went  round  aud 
drew  a  chair  to  Miriam's  side,  and  began  to  tell  her  how  much 
he  loved  her,  how  dear  her  happiness  was  to  him,  and  to  entreat 
her  to  tell  him  the  cause  of  her  evident  distress.  As  he  spoke, 
she  became  paler  than  death,  and  suddenly  and  passionately 
exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  Paul !  Paul !  do  not  question  me !  You  know  not 
what  you  ask." 

"  My  own  Miriam,  what  mean  you  ?     I  ought  to  know." 

"  Oh,  Paul  !  Paul !  I  am  one  foredoomed,  to  bring  misery 
and  destruction  upon  all  who  love  me  ;  upon  all  whom  I  love." 

"  My  own  dearest,  you  are  ill,  and  need  change,  and  you 
shall  have  it,  Miriam,"  he  said,  attempting  to  soothe  her  with 
that  gentle,  tender  loving  manner  he  ever  used  towards  her. 

But  shuddering  sighs  convulsed  her  bosom,  and, 

"  Oh,  Paul  1  Paul !"  was  all  she  said. 

"  Is  it  that  promise  that  weighs  upon  your  mind,  Miriam  ? 
Cast  it  out ;  you  cannot  fulfill  it ;  impossibilities  are  not 
duties." 

"  Oh,  Paul !  would  Heaven  it  were  impossible !  or  that  I 
were  dead." 


DISCOVERIES.  565 

"  Miriam  !  where  are  those  letters  you  wished  to  show  me  ?" 

"  Oh  !  do  not  ask  me,  Paul !  not  yet !  not  yet !  I  dread  to 
see  them.  And  yet — who  knows  ?  they  may  relieve  this  dread- 
ful suspicion  !  they  may  point  to  another  probability,"  she 
said,  incoherently. 

i(  Just  get  me  those  letters,  dear  Miriam,"  he  urged  gently. 

She  arose,  tottering,  and  left  the  room,  and  after  an  absence 
of  fifteen  minutes,  returned  with  the  packet  in  her  hand. 

"  These  seals  have  not  been  broken  since  my  mother  closed 
them,"  said  Miriam,  as  she  proceeded  to  open  the  parcel. 

The  first  she  came  to  was  the  bit  of  a  note  without  date  or 
signature,  making  the  fatal  appointment. 

"  This,  Paul,"  she  said  mournfully,  "  was  found  in  the  pocket 
of  the  dress  Marian  wore  at  Luckenough,  but  changed  at  home 
before  she  went  out  to  walk  the  evening  of  her  death.  Mother 
always  believed  that  she  went  out  to  meet  the  appointment 
made  in  that  note." 

"  Paul  took  the  paper  with  eager  curiosity,  to  examine  it. 
lie  looked  at  it,  started  slightly,  turned  pale,  shuddered,  passed 
his  hand  once  or  twice  across  his  eyes,  as  if  to  clear  his  vision, 
looked  again,  and  then  his  cheeks  blanched,  his  lips  gradually 
whitened  and  separated,  his  eyes  started,  and  his  whole  counte- 
nance betrayed  consternation  and  horror. 

Miriam  gazed  upon  him  in  a  sort  of  hushed  terror — then 
exclaimed, 

"  Paul  1  Paul !  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  look  as  if  you  had 
been  turned  to  stone  by  gazing  on  the  Gorgon's  head  ;  Paul ! 
Paul  !" 

"  Miriam,  did  your  mother  know  this  handwriting  ?"  he  asked, 
in  a  husky,  almost  inaudible  voice. 

"  No !" 

"  Did  she  suspect  it  ?" 

"  No !" 

"  Did  you  know  or  suspect  it  ?" 

"  No  !  I  was  a  child  when  I  received  it,  remember  ;  I  havo 
never  seen  it  since." 


56C  THE       MISSING       BRIDE. 

"Not  when  you  put  it  in  ray  hand,  just  now  ?" 

"  No,  I  never  looked  at  the  writing  ?" 

"  That  was  most  strange,  that  you  should  not  have  glanced 
at  the  handwriting  when  you  handed  it  to  me  ;  why  didn't  you  ? 
Were  yon  afraid  to  look  at  it?  Miriam!  why  do  you  turn 
away  your  head  ?  Miriam  !  answer  me — do  you  know  the 
handwriting?" 

"  No,  Paul,  I  do  not  know  it — do  you  ?" 

"No!  no!  how  should  I?  but  Miriam,  your  head  is  still 
averted.  Your  very  voice  is  changed.  Miriam  1  what  mean 
you  ?  tell  me  once  for  all.  Do  you  suspect  the  handwriting?" 

"  How  should  I  ?  do  you,  Paul?" 

"  No !  no  !%  I  don't  suspect  it." 

They  seemed  afraid  to  look  each  other  in  the  face ;  and  well 
they  might  be,  for  the  written  agony  ou  either  brow;  they 
seemed  afraid  to  hear  the  sound  of  each  other's  words  ;  and  well 
they  might  foe,  for  the  hollow,  unnatural  sound  of  either  voice. 

"  It  cannot  be  !  I  am  crazy,  I  believe.  Let  me  clear  my — 
oh,  Heaven  !  Miriam  !  did — was — do  you  know  whether  there 
was  any  one  in  particular  on  familiar  terms  with  Miss 
Mayfield  ?" 

"No  one  out  of  the  family,  except  Miss  Thornton." 

"  '  Out  of  the  family' — out  of  what  family  ?" 

"  Ours,  at  the  cottage." 

"  Was — did — I  wonder  if  my  brother  knew  her  intimately  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  I  never  saw  them  in  each  other's  company 
but  twice  in  my  life." 

The  youth  breathed  a  little  freer." 

"  Why  did  you  ask,  Paul  ?" 

"  No  matter,  Miriam.  Oh !  I  was  a  wretch,  a  beast  to 
think—" 

"  What,  Paul  ?" 

"  There  are  such  strange  resemblances  in — in — hi — what  are 
you  looking  at  me  so  for,  Miriam  ?" 

"  To  find  your  meaning.  In  what,  Paul  ?  strange  resemblances 
in  whatT' 


DISCOVERIES.  567 

"Why  in/aces." 

"  Why  then  so  there  are,  and  in  persons  also  ;  and  sometimes 
in  fates  ;  but  we  were  talking  of  handwritings,  Paul." 

"  Were  we  ?  oh,  true.  I  am  not  quite  right,  Miriam.  I 
believe  I  have  confined  myself  too  much,  and  studied  too  hard. 
I  am  really  out  of  sorts,  never  mind  me !  please  hand  me  thoso 
foreign  letters,  love." 

Miriam  was  unfolding  and  examining  them  ;  but  all  in  a  cold, 
stony,  unnatural  way. 

"  Paul,"  she  asked,  "  wasn't  it  just  eight  years  this  spring 
fcince  your  brother  went  to  Scotland  to  fotch  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  why  ?" 

"  Wasn't  it  to  Glasgow  that  he  went?" 

"Yes,  why?" 

"Were  not  you  there  together  in  March  and  April,  182- ?" 

"  Once  more,  yes  !  why  do  you  inquire  ?" 

"  Because  all  these  foreign  letters  directed  to  Marian,  are 
postmarked  Glasgow,  and  dated  March  or  April,  182-" 

With  a  low,  stifled  cry,  and  a  sudden  spring,  he  snatched  the 
packet  from  her  hand,  tore  open  the  first  letter  that  presented 
itself,  and  ran  his  strained,  blood-shotten  eyes  down  the  lines. 
Half  suppressed,  deep  groans  like  those  wrung  by  torture  from 
a  strong  man's  heart,  burst  from  his  pale  lips,  and  great  drops 
of  sweat  beaded  on  his  agonized  forehead ;  and  then  he 
crushed  the  letters  together  in  his  hand,  and  held  them  tightly, 
unconsciously,  while  his  starting  eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy, 
and  his  frozen  lips  muttered, 

"  In  a  fit  of  frantic  passion,  anger,  jealousy,  even  he  might 
have  been  maddened  to  the  pitch  of  doing  such  a  thing  !  but  as 
an  act  of  base  policy,  as  an  act  of  forethought,  oh !  never, 
never,  never !" 

"  Paul !  Paul !  speak  to  me,  Paul.  Tell  me  what  you  think. 
J  have  had  foreshadowings  long.  I  can  bear  silence  aud  un 
certainty  no  longer.  What  find  you  in  those  letters'}  Oh, 
bpeak,  or  my  heart  will  burst,  Paul." 

He  gave  no  heed  to  her  or  her  words,  but  remained  like  one 


5G8  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

impaled  ;  still,  fixed,  yet  writhing,  his  features,  his  whole  form 
and  expression  discolored,  distorted  with  inward  agony. 

"Paul!  Paul!"  cried  Miriam,  starting  up,  standing  before 
him,  gazing  on  him:  "Paul!  speak  to  me.  Your  looks  kill 
me.  Speak,  Paul !  even  though  you  can  tell  ine  little  new.  I 
know  it  all,  Paul ;  or  nearly  all.  Weeks  ago  I  received  the 
shock !  it  overwhelmed  me  for  the  time  ;  but  I  survived  it !  but 
you,  Paul !  you !  Oh  1  how  you  look  !  Speak  to  your  sister, 
Paul !  Speak  to  your  promised  wife." 

But  he  gave  no  heed  to  her.  She  was  not  strong  or  assured 
— she  felt  herself  tottering  on  the  very  verge  of  death  or  mad- 
ness— but  she  could  not  bear  to  see  him  looking  so — once  more 
she  essayed  to  engage  his  attention. 

"Give  me  those  letters,  Paul — I  can  perhaps  make  out  the 
meaning." 

As  he  did  not  reply,  she  gently  sought  to  take  them  from  his 
hand.  But  at  her  touch  he  suddenly  started  up  and  threw 
the  packet  into  the  fire.  With  a  quick  spring  Miriam  darted 
forward,  thrust  her  hand  into  the  fire,  and  rescued  the  packet, 
scorched  and  burning,  but  not  destroyed. 

She  began  to  put  it  out,  regardless  of  the  pain  to  her  hands, 
He  looked  as  if  he  were  tempted  to  snatch  it  from  her,  but  she 
exclaimed, 

"  No,  Paul !  no  I  you  will  not  use  force  to  deprive  me  of  this 
that  I  must  guard  as  a  sacred  trust." 

Still  Paul  hesitated,  and  eyed  the  packet  with  a  gloomy 
glance. 

"Remember  honor,  Paul,  even  in  this  trying  moment,"  said 
Miriam;  "  let  honor  be  saved,  if  all  else  be  lost." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  that  parcel  ?"  he  asked  in  a 
hollow  voice. 

"Keep  them  securely  for  the  present." 

"  And  afterwards?" 

"  I  know  not." 

"  Miriam,  you  evade  my  questions.  Will  you  promise  ma 
cue  thing  ?" 


DISCOVERIES.  569 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  Promise  me  to  do  nothing  with  those  letters  until  you  hare 
farther  evidence." 

"I  promise  you  that." 

Then  Paul  took  up  a  candle  and  left  the  room,  as  if  to  go  to 
his  sleeping  apartment ;  but  on  reaching  the  hall,  he  threw 
down  and  extinguished  the  light,  and  rushed  as  if  for  breath 
out  into  the  open  air. 

The  night  was  keen  and  frosty,  the  cold,  slaty  sky  was 
thickly  studded  with  sparkling  stars,  the  snow  was  crusted  over 
— it  was  a  fine,  fresh,  clear,  wintry  night — at  another  time  ifc 
would  have  invigorated  and  inspired  him — now  the  air  seemed 
stifling,  the  scene  hateful. 

The  horrible  suspicion  of  his  brother's  criminality  had  entered 
his  heart  for  the  first  time,  and  it  had  come  with  the  shock  of 
certainty.  The  sudden  recognition  of  the  handwriting,  the 
strange  revelations  of  the  foreign  letters,  had  not  only  in  them- 
selves been  a  terrible  disclosure,  but  had  struck  the  whole  "  elec- 
tric chain"  of  memory  and  association,  and  called  up  in  living 
force  many  an  incident  and  circumstance  heretofore  strange  and 
incomprehensible  ;  but  now  only  too  plain  and  indicative.  The 
whole  of  Thurston's  manner  the  fatal  day  of  the  assassination — 
his  abstraction,  his  anxious  haste  to  get  away  on  the  plea  of 
most  urgent  business  in  Baltimore — business  that  never  was 
afterwards  heard  of — his  mysterious  absence  of  the  whole  night 
from  his  grand  farhet's  death-bed — provoking  conjecture  at 
the  time,  and  unaccounted  for  to  this  day — his  haggard  and 
distracted  looks  upon  returning  late  the  next  morning — his  in- 
curable sorrow — his  habit  of  secluding  himself  upon  the  anni- 
versary of  that  crime — and  now  the  damning  evidence  in  these 
letters  !  Among  them,  and  the  first  he  looked  at,  was  the  let- 
ter Thurston  had  written  Marian,  to  persuade  her  to  accompany 
him  to  France,  in  the  course  of  which  his  marriage  with  her 
was  repeatedly  acknowledged,  being  incidentally  introduced  as 
an  argument  in  favor  of  her  compliance  with  his  wishes. 

Yet  Paul  could  not  believe  the  crime  ever  premeditated — it 


670  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

was  sudden,  unintentional,  consummated  in  a  lover's  quarrel,  in 
a  fit  of  jealousy,  rage,  disappointment,  madness !  Stumbling 
upon  half  the  truth,  he  said  to  himself, 

"Perhaps  failing  to  persuade  her  to  fly  with  him  to  France^ 
he  had  attempted  to  carry  her  off,  and  being  foiled,  had  tempo 
rarily  lost  his  self-control,  his  very  sanity — that  would  account 
for  all  that  had  seemed  so  strange  in  his  conduct  the  day  and 
night  of  the  assassination,  and  the  morning  after." 

There  was  agony — there  was  madness  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
investigation.  Oh  !  pitying  heavens,  how  thought  and  grief 
surged  and  seethed  in  aching  heart  and  burning  brain ! 

And  Miriam's  promise  to  her  dying  mother — Miriam's  pro- 
mise to  bring  the  criminal  to  justice  !  would  she — could  she  now 
abide  by  its  obligations  ? — could  she  prosecute  her  benefactor, 
her  adopted  brother,  for  murder  ? — could  her  hand  be  raised  to 
hurl  him  down  from  his  pride  of  place  to  shame  and  death  ?  No, 
no,  no,  no  !  the  vow  must  be  broken,  must  be  evaded,  the  right, 
even  if  it  were  the  right,  must  be  transgressed,  heaven  offended — 
anything  !  anything !  anything  but  the  exposure  and  sacrifice  of 
their  brother !  If  he  had  sinned,  had  he  not  repented  ?  did  he 
not  suffer?  what  right  had  she,  his  ward,  his  protege,  his  child,  to 
punish  him  ?  "  Vengeance  is  mine — I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord." 
Xo,  Miriam  must  not  keep  her  vow  1  She  must ;  she  must ;  she 
must ;  responded  the  moral  sense,  slow,  measured,  dispassionate, 
as  the  regular  fail  of  a  clock's  hammer.  "  I  will  myself  prevent 
her,  I  will  find  means,  arguments  and  persuasions  to  act  upon 
her.  I  will  so  appeal  to  her  affections,  her  gratitude,  her  com- 
passion, her  pride,  her  fears,  her  love  for  me — I  will  so  work 
upon  her  heart  that  she  will  not  find  courage  to  keep  her  vow." 
She  will ;  she  will ;  responded  the  deliberate  conscience. 

And  so  he  walked  up  and  down — vainly  the  fresh  wind  fanned 
his  fevered  brow — vainly  the  sparkling  stars  glanced  down  from 
holy  heights  upon  him — he  found  no  coolness  for  his  fever  in 
the  air,  no  sedative  for  his  anxiety  in  the  stillness,  no  comfort 
for  his  soul  in  the  heavens — he  knew  not  whether  he  Avere  in- 
doors or  out — whether  it  were  night  or  day,  summer  or  winter 


INDICTMENT.  571 

— lie  knew  not,  wrapped  as  he  was  in  the  mantle  of  his  own  sad 
thoughts,  suffering  as  he  was  in  the  purgatory  of  his  inner  life. 
While  Paul  walked  up  and  down,  like  a  maniac,  Miriam  re- 
turned to  her  room  to  pace  the  floor  until  nearly  morning,  when 
she  threw  herself  exhausted  upon  the  bed,  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep, 
and  a  third  time,  doubtless  from  nervous  excitement  or  prostra- 
tion, suffered  a  repetition  of  her  singular  vision,  and  awoke  late 
in  the  morning,  with  the  words,  "  Perform  thy  vow,"  ringing  in 
her  ears. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

INDICTMENT. 

"  And  yet  he  seems  not  overcome, 
Although  as  yet  his  voice  be  dumb." 

SEVERAL  days  passed  in  the  gloomy  mansion  misnamed  Dell- 
Delight.  Miriam  and  Paul  avoided  each  other  like  death. 
Both  dreaded  like  death  any  allusion  to  the  awful  subject  that 
lay  so  heavy  upon  the  heart  of  each.  Paul,  unacquainted  with 
her  thoughts,  and  relying  upon  her  promise  to  do  nothing  with 
the  letters  without  further  evidence,  contented  himself  with 
watching  her  motions,  feeling  comparatively  at  ease  as  long  as 
she  should  remain  in  the  house ;  and  being  resolved  to  prevent 
her  from  going  forth,  or  to  accompany  her  if  she  persisted  in 
leaving  home. 

With  Miriam,  the  shock,  the  anguish,  the  struggle  had  well- 
nigh  passed ;  she  was  at  once  subdued  and  resolved,  like  one 
into  whom  some  spirit  had  entered  and  bound  her  own  spirit, 
and  acted  through  her.  So  strange  did  all  appear  to  her,  so 
strange  the  irapassiveness  of  her  own  will,  of  her  habits  and 
affections,  that  should  have  rebelled  and  warred  against  her 
purpose,  that  she  sometimes  thought  herself  not  herself,  or 


572  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

insane,  or  the  subject  of  a  monomania,  or  some  strange  hallucina- 
tion, a  dreamer,  a  somnambulist,  perhaps.  And  yet  with 
matchless  tact  and  discretion,  she  went  about  her  deadly  work. 
She  had  prepared  her  plan  of  action,  and  now  waited  only  for  a 
day  very  near  at  hand,  the  fourth  of  April,  the  anniversary  of 
Marian's  assassination,  to  put  Thurston  to  a  final  test  before 
proceeding  further. 

The  day  came  at  last — it  was  cold  and  wintry  for  the  season. 
Towards  evening,  the  sky  became  overcast  with  leaden  clouds, 
and  the  chill  dampness  penetrated  into  all  the  rooms  of  the  old 
mansion.  Poor  Fanny  was  muttering  and  moaning  to  herself 
and  her  "spirits"  over  the  wood  fire  in  her  distant  room. 

Mr.  Willcoxen  had  not  appeared  since  breakfast  time.  Mi- 
riam remained  in  her  own  chamber ;  and  Paul  wandered  rest- 
lessly from  place  to  place  through  all  the  rooms  of  the  house, 
or  threw  himself  wearily  into  his  chair  before  the  parlor  fire. 
Inclement  as  the  weather  was,  he  would  have  gone  forth,  but 
that  he  too  remembered  the  anniversary,  and  a  nameless  anxiety 
connected  with  Miriam  confined  him  to  the  house. 

In  the  kitchen,  the  colored  folks  gathered  around  the  fire, 
grumbling  at  the  unseasonable  coldness  of  the  weather,  and 
predicting  a  hail-storm,  and  telling  each  other  that  they  never 
"  'sperienced"  such  weather  this  time  o'  year,  'cept  'twas  that 
spring  Old  Marse  died — when  no  wonder,  "  'siderin'  how  he 
lived  long  o'  Sam  all  his  life." 

Only  old  Jenny  went  in  and  out  from  house  to  kitchen.  Old 
Jenny  had  enough  to  do  to  carry  wood  to  the  various  fires. 
She  had  never  "soed  it  so  cold  for  de  season  nyther,  'cept  'twas 
de  spring  Miss  Marian  went  to  hebben,  and  not  a  bit  o'  wonder  de 
yeth  was  cole  arter  she  war  gone — de  dear,  lovin'  heart  warm 
angel ;  'deed  I  wondered  how  it  ever  come  summer  again,  an' 
thought  it  was  right  down  onsensible  in  her  morning-glories  to 
bloom  out  jest  de  same  as  ever,  arter  she  was  gone !  An'  what 
minds  me  to  speak  o'  Miss  Marian  now,  it  war  jes'  seven  years 
this  night,  since  she  'parted  'dis  life,"  said  Jenny,  as  she  stood 
leaning  her  head  upon  the  mantle-piece,  and  toasting  her  roes 


INDICTMENT.  573 

at  the  kitchen  fire,  previous  to  carrying  another  armful  of  WOOQ 
into  the  parlor. 

Night  and  the  storm  descended  together — such  a  tempest ! 
such  a  wild  outbreaking  of  the  elements  !  rain  and  hail,  and  snow 
and  wind,  all  warring  upon  the  earth  together — the  old  house 
shook,  the  doors  and  windows  rattled,  the  timbers  cracked,  the 
shingles  were  torn  off  and  whirled  aloft — the  trees  were  swayed 
and  snapped  ;  and  as  the  storm  increased  in  violence  and  roused 
to  fury,  the  forest  beat  before  its  might,  and  the  waves  rose  and 
overflowed  the  low  land. 

Still  old  Jenny  went  in  and  out  from  house  to  kitchen  and 
kitchen  to  house,  carrying  wood,  water,  meat,  bread,  sauce, 
sweetmeats,  arranging  the  table  for  supper,  replenishing  the 
fire,  lighting  the  candles,  letting  down  the  curtains — and  trying 
to  make  everything  cozy  and  comfortable  for  the  reassembling 
of  the  fireside  circle.  Poor  old  Jenny  had  passed  so  much  of  her 
life  in  the  family  with  "the  white  folks,"  that  all  her  sympathies 
went  with  them — and  on  the  state  of  their  spiritual  atmosphere 
depended  all  her  cheerfulness  and  comfort;  and  now  the  cool, 
distant,  sorrowful  condition  of  the  members  of  the  little  family- 
circle — "ebry  single  mudder's  son  and  darter  ob  'em,  superam- 
balated  off  to  dcrself  like  pris'ners  in  a  jail-house" — as  she 
said — depressed  her  spirits  very  much.  Jenny's  reaction  from 
depression  was  always  querulous.  And  towards  the  height  of 
the  storm,  there  was  a  reaction  and  she  grew  very  quarrelsome. 

"  Sam's  waystin'*  roun'  in  dere,"  said  Jenny,  as  she  thrust 
ner  feet  into  the  kitchen  fire,  before  carrying  in  the  urn ;  "  Sam's 
ivaystiu',  I  tells  you  all  good!  all  werry  quiet  dough — oo  noise, 
no  fallin'  out,  no  'sputin'  nor  nothin' — all  quiet  as  de  yeth  jesc 
afore  a  debbil  ob  a  storm — nobody  in  de  parlor  'cept  'tis 
Marse  Paul,  settin'  right  afore  de  parlor  fire,  wid  one  long  leg 
poked  east  and  toder  west,  wid  the  boots  on  de  andirons  like  a 
spread-eagle !  lookin'  as  glum  as  if  I  owed  him  a  year's  sarvice, 
an' nebber  so  much  as  a-sayin',  'Jenny,  you  poor  old  debbil, 


W&ysting — 8°ing  up  and  down. 

36 


574  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

aint  you  a-cold  ?'  an'  me  coming  in  ebry  minn.it  wid  the  icicles 
a-jinglin'  'roun'  my  linsey-woolsey  skurts,  like  de  diamonds  on 
de  Wirgin  Mary's  Sunday  gown.  But  Sam's  waystiu'  now,  I 
tells  you  all  good.  Lors  Gemini,  what  a  storm." 

'•  I  'members  of  no  sich  since  dat  same  storm  as  de  debbil 
come  in  to  fetch  ole  marse's  soul — dis  berry  night  seven  year 
past,  an'  he  carried  of  him  off  all  in  a  suddint  whiff  1  jist  like  a 
puff  of  win'.  An'  no  wonder,  seem'  how  he  done  traded  his 
BOU!  to  him  for  money  !" 

"An'  Sam's  here  ag'in  to-night!  dunno  who  he's  come  arter! 
but  he's  here,  now,  I  tells  you  all  good!"  said  Jenny,  as  she 
took  up  the  urn  to  carry  into  the  parlor. 

When  she  got  there  she  could  scarcely  get  to  the  fire ;  Paul 
took  up  the  front.  His  immobility  and  unconsciousness  irri- 
tated Jenny  beyond  silent  endurance. 

"I  tell  you  all  what,"  she  said,  "  I  means  to  'sign  my  sitewa- 
tiou !  'deed  me !  I  can't  kill  mysef  for  dem  as  wouldn't  even 
care  'uough  for  me  to  have  a  mass  said  for  de  'pose  o'  my  soul." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Paul,  angrily,  for  confinement, 
solitude,  bad  weather,  and  anxiety,  had  combined  to  make  him 
querulous  too. 

"  I  means  how  ef  yer  doesn't  have  a  kivered  way  made  from 
de  house  to  de  kitchen  an'  back  ag'in,  I  gwine  give  up  waitin' 
on  de  table,  now  mine  I  tell  yer,  'deed  me !  an'  now  ef  you 
likes,  yer  may  jes'  go  an'  tell  Marse  Rooster." 

"  '  Marse  Rooster!'  "  will  you  ever  give  up  that  horrid  non- 
sense. Why  you  old — !  Is  my  brother — is  your  master  a 
barn-door  chicken-cock,  that  you  call  him  '  Rooster  ?'  "  asked 
the  young  man,  snappishly. 

"Well,  Shrooster,  den,  ef  you  wants  me  to  wring  my  tongue 
in  two.  Ef  people's  sponsors  in  baptism  will  gib  der  chilluu 
such  heathen  names,  how  de  debbil  any  Christian  'ornan  gwine 
to  twis'  her  tongue  roun'  it  ?  I  thanks  my  'Yine  Marster  dat 
my  sponsors  in  baptism  named  me  arter  de  bressed  an'  hooly 
S'int  Jane — who  has  'stained  an'  's'ported  me  all  my  days ;  an' 
'ill  detect  now,  dough  you  do  try  to  break  my  poor  ole  heart 


INDICTMENT.  575 

long  wid  onkindness  at  my  ole  ages  o'  life !  But  what's  de  use 
o'  talkin' — Sam's  waystin' !"  And  so  sa)Ting,  Jenny  gave  the 
finishing  touches  to  the  arrangement  of  the  table,  and  then 
seized  the  bell,  and  rang  it  with  rather  needless  vigor  and  vio- 
lence, to  bring  the  scattered  members  of  the  family  together. 

They  came — slowly  and  singly — and  drew  around  the  table, 
more  like  ghosts  than  living  persons — a  few  remarks  upon  the 
storm — and  then  they  sunk  into  silence — and  as  soon  as  tho 
gloomy  meal  was  over,  one  by  one  they  dropped  away  from  the 
room — first  went  poor  Fanny,  then  Mr.  Willcoxen,  then  Miriam. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Miriam  ?"  asked  Paul,  as  the  latter 
was  leaving  the  room. 

"To  my  chamber." 

And  before  he  could  farther  question,  or  longer  detain  her, 
she  pressed  his  hand  and  went  out.  And  Paul,  with  a  deep 
sigh  and  a  strangely  foreboding  heart,  sank  back  into  his  seat. 

When  Miriam  reached  her  bed-room,  she  carefully  closed  and 
locked  the  door,  went  to  her  bureau,  opened  the  top-drawer, 
and  took  from  it  a  small  oblong  mahogany  glove-box.  She 
unlocked  the  latter,  and  took  out  a  small  parcel,  which  she  un- 
wrapped and  laid  before  her  upon  the  bureau. 

It  was  the  xyphias  poniard. 

The  weapon  had  come  into  her  possession  some  time  before 
in  the  following  manner :  During  the  first  winter  of  Paul 
Douglass's  absence  from  home,  Mr.  Willcoxen  had  emancipated 
several  of  his  slaves  and  provided  means  for  their  emigration  to 
Liberia.  They  were  to  sail  early  in  March.  Among  the  num- 
ber was  Melchisedek.  A  few  days  previous  to  their  departure, 
this  man  had  come  to  the  house,  and  sought  the  presence  of  his 
youthful  mistress,  when  he  knew  her  to  be  alone  in  the  parlor, 
and  with  a  good  deal  of  mystery  and  hesitation  had  laid  before 
her  a  dagger  which  he  said  he  should  rather  have  given  to 
"  Marster  Paul,"  if  the  latter  had  been  at  home.  He  had 
picked  it  up  near  the  water's  edge  on  the  sands  the  night  of 
Miss  Mayfield's  death,  which  "  Marster"  had  taken  so  to  heart, 
that  he  was  afraid  to  harrow  up  his  feelings  by  bringing  it  to 


570  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

him  a  second  time — but  that  as  it  was  an  article  of  value,  he 
did  not  like  to  take  it  away  with  him.  And  he  begged  Miss 
Miriam  to  take  charge  of  it.  And  Miriam  had  taken  it,  and 
with  surprise,  but  without  the  slightest  suspicion,  had  read  the 
name  of  "  Thurstou  Willcoxen"  carved  upon  its  handle.  To 
all  her  questions,  Melchisedek  had  given  evasive  answers,  or 
remained  obstinately  silent — being  determined  not  to  betray 
his  master's  confidence  by  revealing  his  share  in  the  events  of  that 
fatal  night.  Miriam  had  taken  the  little  instrument,  wrapped 
it  carefully  in  paper,  and  locked  it  in  her  old-fashioned  long 
glove-box.  And  from  that  day  to  this  she  had  not  opened  it. 

Now,  however,  she  had  taken  it  out  with  a  fixed  purpose, 
and  she  stood  and  gazed  upon  it.  Presently  she  took  it  up, 
rolled  it  in  the  paper,  took  her  lamp,  and  slowly  left  her  room,  and 
passed  along  the  passages  leading  to  Mr.  Willcoxen's  library. 

The  storm  howled  and  raved  as  she  went,  and  the  strong 
blast,  driving  through  the  dilapidated  window-sashes,  nearly  ex- 
tinguished her  light  before  she  reached  the  study  door. 

She  blew  out  the  light  and  set  down  the  lamp,  and  rapped 
at  the  door.  Again  and  again  she  rapped,  without  awakening 
any  response  from  within. 

Then  she  turned  the  latch,  opened  the  door,  and  entered. 
No  wonder  she  had  received  no  answer. 

The  abstracted  man  before  her  seemed  dead  to  every  sight 
and  sound  around  him.  He  sat  before  the  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  his  elbow  on  the  mahogany ;  his  face  bowed  upon 
his  hand,  his  haggard  countenance  revealing  a  still,  speechless 
despair  as  awful  as  it  was  profound. 

Miriam  approached  and  stood  by  him,  her  breath  went  by 
his  cheek,  so  near  she  stood,  and  yet  her  presence  was  unheeded 
She  stooped  to  see  the  object  upon  which  he  gazed — the  object 
that  now  shut  out  all  the  world  from  his  sight — it  was  a  long 
bright  tress  of  golden  auburn  hair. 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen !" 

He  did  not  hear  her — how  should  he  hear  her  low  tones,  when 
he  heard  not  the  cannonading  of  the  storm  that  shook  the  house 
to  its  foundation  ? 


INDICTMENT.  577 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen  !"  she  said  once  more. 

But  he  moved  not  a  muscle. 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen  !"  she  repeated,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

lie  looked  up.  The  expression  of  haggard  despair  softened 
cut  of  his  countenance. 

"Is  it  you,  my  dear?"  he  said.  "What  has  brought  you 
here,  Miriam  ?  Were  you  afraid  of  the  storm  ?  There  is  no 
danger,  dear  child — it  has  nearly  expended  its  force,  and  will 
soon  be  over — but  sit  down." 

"  Oh,  no !  it  is  not  the  storm  that  has  brought  me  here 
though  I  scarcely  remember  a  storm  so  violent  at  this  seasou 
of  the  year, — except  one — this  night  seven  years  ago — the  night 
that  Marian  Mayfield  was  murdered !" 

He  started — it  is  true  that  he  had  been  thinking  of  the  same 
dread  tragedy — but  to  hear  it  suddenly  mentioned,  pierced  him 
like  an  unexpected  sword  thrust. 

Miriam  proceeded — speaking  in  a  strange,  level,  monotone — 
as  if  unwilling  or  afraid  to  trust  her  voice  far, 

"I  came  this  evening  to  restore  a  small  but  costly  article  of 
virtu,  belonging  to  you,  and  left  in  my  care  some  time  ago,  by 
the  boy  Melchisedek.  It  is  an  antique  dagger — somewhat 
rusty  and  spotted — here  it  is." 

And  she  laid  the  poniard  down  upon  the  tress  of  hair  before 
him. 

He  sprang  up  as  if  it  had  been  a  viper — his  whole  frame 
shook,  and  the  perspiration  started  from  his  livid  forehead. 

^Miriam,  keeping  her  eye  npon  him,  took  the  dagger  up. 

"  It  is  very  rusty,  and  very  much  streaked,"  she  said.  "  I 
wonder  what  these  dark  streaks  can  be  ?  They  run  along  the 
edge,  from  the  extreme  point  of  the  blade,  upwards  towards 
the  handle — they  look  to  me  like  the  stains  of  blood — as  if  a 
rnurdere"  had  stabbed  his  victim  with  it,  and  in  his  haste  to 
escape,  had  forgotten  to  wipe  the  blade,  but  had  left  the  blood 
upon  it,  to  curdle  and  corrode  the  steel — see!  don't  it  look  so  to 
you  ?"  she  said,  approaching  him,  and  holding  the  weapon  lip  tu 
his  view. 


578  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"Girl!  girl!  what  do  you  mean?"  he  exclaimed,  throwing 
his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  hurrying  across  the  room. 

Miriam  flung  down  the  weapon  with  a  force  that  made  its 
mettle  ring  upon  the  floor,  and  hastening  after  him,  she  stood 
before  him ;  her  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  his,  streaming  with  insuf- 
ferable and  consuming  fire,  that  seemed  to  burn  through  into 
his  brain.  She  said, 

"  I  have  heard  of  fiends  in  the  human  shape,  nay,  I  have 
heard  of  Satan  in  the  guise  of  an  angel  of  light !  Are  you  such 
that  stand  before  me  now?" 

"  Miriam,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  in  sorrowful  aston- 
ishment. 

"  THIS  is  what  I  mean  !  That  the  mystery  of  Marian  May- 
field's  fate,  the  secret  of  your  long  remorse,  is  no  longer  hidden  1 
I  charge  you  with  the  murder  of  Marian  Mayfield  !'•' 

"  Miriam,  you  are  mad  !" 

"  Oh !  well  for  me — and  better  still  for  you  if  I  were  mad  !" 

He  was  tremendously  shaken,  more  by  the  vivid  memories 
she  recalled,  than  by  the  astounding  charge  she  made. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  leads  you  to  imagine  such 
impossible  guilt !" 

"  Good  knowledge  of  the  facts— that  this  month,  eight  years 
ago,  in  the  little  Methodist  chapel  of  the  navy  yard,  in  Wash- 
ington City,  you  made  Marian  Mayfield  your  wife — that  this 
night  seven  years  since,  in  just  such  a  storm  as  this,  on  the  beach 
below  Pine  Bluff,  you  met  and  murdered  Marian  Willcoxen ! 
And,  moreover,  I  assure  you,  that  these  facts  which  J  tell  you 
now,  to-morrow  I  will  lay  before  a  magistrate,  together  with  all 
the  corroborating  proof  in  my  possesssion !" 

"  And  what  proof  can  you  have  ?" 

"  A  gentleman  who,  unknown  and  unsuspected,  witnessed  the 
private  marriage  ceremony  between  yourself  and  Marian ;  a 
packet  of  French  letters,  written  by  yourself  from  Glasgow,  to 
Marian,  in  St.  Mary's,  in  the  spring  of  1823;  a  note  found  in 
the  pocket  of  her  dress,  appointing  the  fatal  meeting  on  the 
heueii  at  which  she  penshed.  T//O  physicians,  who  can  testily 


INDICTMENT.  579 

to  your  unaccountable  absence  from  the  death-bed  of  your  pa- 
.rent  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  and  also  to  the  distraction  of 
your  manner  when  you  returned  late  the  next  morning." 

"  And  this,"  said  Thurston,  gazing  in  mournful  amazement 
upon  her;  "this  is  the  child  that  I  have  nourished  and  brought 
up  in  my  house !  She  can  believe  me  guilty  of  such  atrocious 
crime — she  can  aim  at  my  honor  and  my  life  such  a  deadly 
blow  ?" 

"  Alas !  alas !  it  is  my  duty !  it  is  my  fate !  I  cannot  escape 
it !  I  have  bound  my  soul  by  a  fearful  oath  I  I  cannot  evade  it  1 
1  shall  not  survive  it !  Oh,  all  the  Heaven  is  black  with  doom, 
and  all  the  earth  tainted  with  blood  1"  cried  Miriam,  wildly. 

"  You  are  insane,  poor  girl!  you  are  insane!"  said  Thurston, 
pityingly. 

"Would  Heaven  I  were  !  would  Heaven  I  were  !  but  I  am 
not !  I  am  not  1  Too  well  I  remember  I  have  bound  my  soul  by 
an  oath  to  seek  out  Marian's  destroyer,  and  deliver  him  up  to 
death!  And  I  must  do  it!  I  must  do  it!  though  my  heart 
break — as  it  will  break  in  the  act!" 

"  And  you  believe  me  to  be  guilty  of  this  awful  crime!" 

"  There  stands  the  fearful  evidence !  Would  Heaven  it  did 
not  exist !  oh !  would  Heaven  it  did  not !" 

"Listen  to  me,  dear  Miriam,"  he  said  calmly,  for  he  had  now 
recovered  his  self-possession.  "  Listen  to  me — I  am  perfectly 
guiltless  of  the  crime  you  impute  to  me.  How  is  it  possible 
that  I  could  be  otherwise  than  guiltless.  Hear  me  explain  the 
circumstances  that  have  come  to  your  knowledge,"  and  he  at- 
tempted to  take  her  hand  to  lead  her  to  a  seat.  But  with  a 
slight  scream,  she  snatched  her  hand  away,  saying  wildly, 

"  Touch  me  not!  your  touch  thrills  me  to  sickness  !  to  faint- 
ness  !  curdles — turns  back  the  current  of  blood  in  my  veins !" 

"  You  think  this  hand  a  blood-stained  one  ?•" 

"  Tb3  evidence  !  the  evidence  1" 

"I  can  explain  that  evidence.  Miriam,  my  child,  sit  down — 
at  any  distance  from  me  you  please — only  let  it  be  near  enough 
for  you  to  hear.  Did  I  believe  you  quite  sane,  Miriam,  grief 


580  THE      MISSINQ      BRIDE. 

and  anger  might  possibly  seal  my  lips  upon  this  subject — but 
believing  you  partially  deranged — from  illness  and  other  causes 
— I  will  defend  myself  to  you.  Sit  down  and  hear  me." 

Miriam  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair. 

Mr.  Willcoxen  took  another,  and  commenced — 

"  You  have  received  some  truth,  Miriam.  How  it  has  been 
presented  to  you,  I  will  not  ask  now.  I  may  presently.  I  wag 
married,  as  you  have  somehow  ascertained,  to  Marian  Mayfield, 
just  before  going  to  Europe.  I  corresponded  with  her  from 
Glasgow.  I  did  appoint  a  meeting  with  her  on  the  beach,  upon 
the  fatal  evening  in  question — for  what  purpose  that  meeting 
was  appointed,  it  is  bootless  to  tell  you,  since  the  meeting  never 
took  place — for  some  hours  before  I  should  have  set  out  to 
keep  ray  appointment,  my  grandfather  was  stricken  with  apo- 
plexy. I  did  not  wish  to  leave  his  bedside  until  the  arrival  of 
the  doctor.  But  when  the  evening  wore  on,  and  the  storm  ap- 
proached, I  grew  uneasy  upon  Marian's  account,  and  sent  Mel- 
chisedek  in  the  gig  to  fetch  her  from  the  beach  to  this  house — 
never  to  leave  it.  Miriam,  the  boy  reached  the  sands  only  to 
find  her  dying.  Terrified  half  out  of  his  senses,  he  hurried 
back  and  told  me  this  story.  I  forgot  my  dying  relative — for- 
got everything,  but  that  my  wife  lay  wounded  and  exposed  on 
the  beach.  I  sprung  upon  horseback,  and  galloped  with  all 
possible  haste  to  the  spot.  By  the  time  I  had  got  there  the 
storm  had  reached  its  height,  and  the  beach  was  completely 
covered  with  the  boiling  waves.  My  Marian  had  been  carried 
a  way.  I  spent  the  wretched  night  in  wandering  up  and  down 
the  bluff  above  the  beach,  and  calling  on  her  name.  In  the 
morning  I  returned  home  to  find  my  grandfather  dead,  and  the 
family  and  physicians  wondering  at  my  strange  absence  at  such 
a  time.  That,  Miriam,  is  the  story." 

Miriam  made  no  comment  whatever.  Mr.  "VYillcoxen  seemed 
surprised  and  grieved  at  her  silence. 

"What  have  you  now  to  say,  Miriam ?" 

"Nothing." 

4< '  Nothing  V — what  do  yon  think  of  my  explanation  ?" 


INDICTMENT.  581 

"I  thiuk  nothing.  My  mind  is  in  an  agony  of  doubt  and 
conjecture.  I  must  be  governed  by  stern  facts — not  by  iny  own 
prepossessions.  I  must  act  upon  the  evidences  in  my  posses- 
sion— not  upon  your  explanation  of  them,"  said  Miriam  dis- 
tractedly, as  she  arose  to  leave  the  room. 

"  And  you  will  denounce  me,  Miriam  ?" 

"  It  is  my  insupportable  duty  !  it  is  my  fate  !  my  doom  !  for 
it  will  kill  me  !" 

"Yet  you  will  doit!" 

"I  will" 

"Yet  turn,  dear  Miriam  !  Look  on  me  once  more!  take  my 
hand  !  since  you  act  from  necessity,  do  nothing  from  anger — 
turn  and  take  my  hand." 

She  turned  and  stood — such  a  picture  of  tearless  agony  !  She 
met  his  gentle,  compassionate  glance — it  melted — it  subdued  her. 

"  Oh !  would  Heaven  that  I  might  die,  rather  than  do  this 
thing  1  would  Heaven  I  might  die  !  for  my  heart  turns  to  you  ; 
it  turns,  and  I  love  you  so — oh !  I  love  you  so  1  never,  never 
so  much  as  now  1  my  brother !  my  brother  !"  and  she  sunk  down 
and  seized  his  hands  and  wept  over  them. 

"What,  Miriam  1  do  you  love  me,  believing  me  to  be  guilty?" 

"  To  have  been  guilty — not  to  be  guilty — you  have  suffered 
remorse — you  have  repented,  these  many  long  and  wretched 
years.  Oh !  surely  repentance  washes  out  guilt !" 

"  And  you  can  now  caress  and  weep  over  my  hands,  believ- 
ing them  to  have  been  crimsoned  with  the  life-stream  of  you* 
first  and  best  friend  ?" 

"Yes!  yes!  yes!  yes!  Oh!  would  these  tears,  my  very 
heart  sobs  forth,  might  wash  them  pure  again!  Yes!  yes! 
whether  you  be  guilty  or  not,  my  brother  !  the  more  I  listen  to 
ray  heart,  the  more  I  love  you,  and  I  cannot  help  it!" 

"It  is  because  your  heart  is  so  much  wiser  than  your  head, 
dear  Miriam !  Your  heart  divines  the  guiltlessness  that  your 
rer,soa  refuses  to  credit !  Do  what  you  feel  that  you  must,  dear 
Miriam — but,  in  the  meantime,  let  us  still  be  brother  and  sister 
— embrace  me  once  more." 
48* 


542  THE      MISSING      B  11  IDE. 

With  anguish  bordering  on  insanity,  she  threw  herself  into 
his  arms  for  a  moment — was  pressed  to  his  heart,  arid  then 
breaking  away,  she  escaped  from  the  room  to  her  own  chamber. 
And  there,  with  her  half-crazed  brain  and  breaking  heart — like 
one  acting  or  forced  to  act  in  a  ghastly  dream,  she  began  to 
arrange  her  evidence — collect  the  letters,  the  list  of  witnesses 
and  all,  preparatory  to  setting  forth  upon  her  fatal  mission  in 
the  morning. 

With  the  earliest  dawn  of  morning,  Miriam  left  her  room. 
In  passing  the  door  of  Mr.  Willcoxen's  chamber,  she  suddenly 
stopped — a  spasm  seized  her  heart,  and  convulsed  her  features 
• — she  clasped  her  hands  to  pray,  then,  as  if  there  were  wild 
mockery  in  the  thought,  flung  them  fiercely  apart,  and  hurried 
on  her  way.  She  felt  that  she  was  leaving  the  house  never  to 
return,  she  thought  that  she  should  depart  without  encountering 
any  of  its  inmates.  She  was  surprised,  therefore,  to  meet  Paul 
in  the  front  passage.  He  came  up  and  intercepted  her — 

"  Where  are  you  going  so  early,  Miriam  ?" 

"To  Colonel  Thornton's." 

"  What  ?  before  breakfast  ?" 

"Yes." 

lie  took  both  of  her  hands,  and  looked  into  her  face — her 
pallid  face — with  all  the  color  concentrated  in  a  dark  crimson 
spot  upon  either  cheek — with  all  the  life  burning  deep  down  in 
the  contracted  pupils  of  the  eyes. 

"  Miriam,  you  are  not  well — come,  go  into  the  parlor,"  he 
said,  and  attempted  to  draw  her  towards  the  door. 

"  No,  Paul,  no !  I  must  go  out,"  she  said,  resisting  his  efforts. 

"But  why?" 

"  What  is  it  to  you  ?     Let  me  go." 

"  It  is  everything  to  me,  Miriam,  because  I  suspect  your  er- 
rand. Come  into  the  parlor.  This  madness  must  not  go  on." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am  mad,  and  my  words  and  acts  may  go 
for  nothing.  I  hope  it  may  be  so." 

"  Miriam,  I  must  talk  with  you — not  here — for  we  are  liabhs 
to  be  interrupted  every  instant.  Come  into  the  parlor,  at  least 
ror  a  ft;\v  moments." 


INDICTMENT.  583 

She  no  longer  resisted  that  slight  plea,  but  suffered  him  to 
lead  her  in.  He  gave  her  a  seat,  and  took  one  beside  her,  and 
took  her  hand  in  his,  and  began  to  urge  her  to  give  up  her 
fatal  purpose.  He  appealed  to  her,  through  reason,  through 
religion,  through  all  the  strongest  passions  and  affections  of  her 
soul — through  her  devotion  to  her  guardian — through  the  gra- 
titude she  owed  him — through  their  mutual  love,  that  must  be 
sacrificed,  if  her  insane  purpose  should  be  carried  out.  To  all 
this  she  answered, 

"  I  think  of  nothing  concerning  myself,  Paul — I  think  only 
of  him,  there  is  the  anguish." 

"  You  are  insane,  Miriam ;  yet,  crazy  as  you  are,  you  may  do 
a  great  deal  of  harm — much  to  Thurston,  but  much  more  to 
yourself.  It  is  not  probable  that  the  evidence  you  think  you 
have,  will  be  considered  by  any  magistrate  of  sufficient  import- 
ance to  be  acted  upon  against  a  man  of  Mr.  Willcoxeu's  life 
i-ucz  character." 

"  Heaven  grant  that  such  may  be  the  case." 

"Attend!  collect  your  thoughts — the  evidence  you  produce 
will  probably  be  considered  unimportant,  and  quite  unworthy 
of  attention ;  but  what  will  be  thought  of  you,  who  volunteer 
to  offer  it?" 

"  I  had  not  reflected  upon  that — and  now  you  mention  it,  I 
do  not  care." 

"  And  if,  on  the  other  hand,  the  testimony  which  you  have 
to  o£er,  be  considered  ground  for  indictment,  and  Thurston  is 
brought  to  trial,  and  acquitted,  as  he  surely  would  be — " 

"  Aye  1  Heaven  send  it !" 

"And  the  whole  affair  blown  all  over  the  country — how 
would  you  appear  ?" 

"  I  know  not,  and  care  not,  so  he  is  cleared  ;  Heaven  grant 
I  may  be  the  only  sufferer  I  I  am  willing  to  take  the  infamy." 

"  You  would  be  held  up  before  the  world  as  an  ingrate,  a 
domestic  traitress,  and  unnatural  monster.  You  would  be  hated 
of  all — your  name  and  history  become  a  tradition  of  almost  im- 
possible wickedness." 


684  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  lla !  why,  do  you  think,  that  in  such  an  hour  as  this,  I  cai« 
for  myself  ?  No,  no  !  no,  no !  Heaven  grant  that  it  may  be 
as  you  say — that  my  brother  be  acquitted,  and  I  only  may 
suffer !  I  am  willing  to  suffer  shame  and  death  for  him  whom 
I  denounce !  Let  me  go,  Paul ;  I  have  lost  too  much  time 
here." 

"Will  nothing  induce  you  to  abandon  this  wicked  purpose  ?'* 

"  Nothing  on  earth,  Paul !" 

"Nothing?" 

"  Xo  !  so  help  me  Heaven  1     Give  way — let  me  go,  Paul." 

"  You  must  not  go,  Miriam." 

"  I  must  and  will — and  that  directly — stand  aside." 

"  Then  you  shall  not  go." 

"Shall  not?" 

"I  said  SHALL  not." 

"Who  will  prevent  me?" 

"/will !  You  are  a  maniac,  Marian,  and  must  be  restrur -cd 
from  going  abroad,  and  setting  the  county  in  a  conflagration." 

"  You  will  have  to  guard  me  very  close  for  the  whole  of  my 
life,  then." 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  quietly  opened,  and  Mr.  Will- 
coxen  entered. 

Miriam's  countenance  changed  fearfully,  but  she  wrung  her 
hand  from  the  clasp  of  Paul's,  and  hastened  towards  the  door. 

Paul  sprang  forward  and  intercepted  her. 

"What  does  this  mean  ?"  asked  Mr.  Willcoxen,  stepping  up 
to  them. 

"  It  means  that  she  is  mad,  and  will  do  herself  or  somebody 
else  much  mischief,"  cried  Paul,  sharply 

"  For  shame,  Paul  1  Release  her  instantly,"  said  Thurston, 
authoritatively. 

"  WouW  you  release  a  lunatic,  bent  upon  setting  the  houso 
on  fire?"  expostulated  the  young  man,  still  holding  her. 

"  She  is  no  lunatic;  let  her  go  instantly,  sir." 

Paul,  with  a  groan,  complied. 

Mil-am  hastened  onward,  cast  one  look  of  anguieh  back  to 


INDICTMENT.  585 

Thurston's  face,  rushed  back,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  knees 
at  his  feet,  clasped  his  hands,  and  cried, 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  pardon  me — I  dare  not  I  But  God 
deliver  you  I  if  it  brand  me  and  my  accusation  with  infamy ! 
and  God  forever  bless  you  !"  then  rising,  she  fled  from  the 
room. 

The  brothers  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Thurston,  do  you  know  where  she  has  gone  ?  what  she  in- 
tends to  do  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  do  ?" 

"  Assuredly." 

"And  you  would  not  prevent  her?" 

"  Most  certainly  not." 

Paul  was  gazing  into  his  brother's  eyes,  and,  as  he  gazed, 
every  vestige  of  doubt  and  suspicion  vanished  from  his  mind  ; 
it  was  like  the  sudden  clearing  up  of  the  sky,  and  shining  forth 
of  the  sun  ;  he  grasped  his  brother's  hands  with  cordial  joy. 

"  God  bless  you,  Thnrston  !  I  echo  her  prayer.  God  for- 
ever bless  you !  But,  Thurston,  would  it  not  have  been  wiser 
to  prevent  her  going  out  ?" 

"  How  ?  would  you  have  used  force  with  Miriam  ?  restrained 
her  personal  liberty  ?" 

"  Yes  1  I  would  have  done  so  !" 

"  That  would  have  been  not  only  wrong,  but  useless ;  for 
if  her  strong  affections  for  us  were  powerless  to  restrain  her,  be 
sure  that  physical  means  would  fail ;  she  would  make  herself 
heard  in  some  way,  and  thus  make  our  cause  much  worse.  Be- 
sides I  should  loathe,  for  myself,  to  resort  to  any  such  expe- 
dients." 

"  But  she  may  do  so  much  harm.     And  you  ?'• 

"  I  am  prepared  to  meet  what  comes  !" 

-''  Strange  infatuation  !  that  she  should  believe  you  to  be — 
I  will  not  wrong  you  by  finishing  the  sentence." 

"  She  does  not  at  heart  believe  me  guilty — her  mind  is  in  a 
storm.  She  is  bound  by  her  oath  to  act  upon  the  evidence 


586  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

rather  than  r.pon  her  own  feelings,  and  that  evidence  is  ranch 
stronger  against  me,  Paul,  than  you  have  any  idea  of.     Come 
into  my  study,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  story." 
And  Paul  followed  him  thither. 


Some  hours  later  in  that  day,  Colonel  Thornton  was  sitting, 

in  his  capacity  of  police  magistrate,  in  his  office  at  C .  The 

room  was  occupied  by  about  a  dozen  persons,  men  and  women, 
black  and  white.  He  had  just  got  through  with  one  or  two 
petty  cases  of  debt  or  theft,  and  had  up  before  him  a  poor,  half- 
starved  "  White  Herring,"  charged  with  sheep-stealing  ;  when 
the  door  opened,  and  a  young  girl,  closely  veiled,  entered  and 
took  a  seat  in  the  farthest  corner  from  the  crowd.  The  case  of 
the  poor  man  was  soon  disposed  of — the  evidence  was  not  po- 
sitive— the  compassionate  magistrate  leaned  to  the  side  of 
mercy,  and  the  man  was  discharged,  and  went  home  most  pro- 
bably to  dine  upon  mutton.  This  being  the  last  case,  the  ma- 
gistrate arose  and  ordered  the  room  to  be  cleared  of  all  who 
had  no  further  business  with  him. 

When  the  loungers  had  left  the  police  office,  the  young  girl 
came  forward,  stood  before  the  magistrate,  and  raised  her  veil, 
revealing  the  features  of  Miriam. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Shields,"  said  Colonel  Thornton;  and 
neither  the  countenance  nor  manner  of  this  suave  and  stately 
gentleman  of  the  old  school,  revealed  the  astonishment  he  really 
felt  on  seeing  the  young  lady  in  such  a  place.  He  arose,  and 
courteously  placed  her  a  chair,  reseated  himself,  and  turned 
towards  her,  and  respectfully  awaited  her  communication. 

"  Colonel  Thornton,  you  remember  Miss  Mayfield,  and  the 
manner  of  her  death,  that  made  some  stir  here  about  seven 
years  ago  ?" 

The  face  of  the  old  gentleman  suddenly  grew  darkened  and 
elightly  convulsed,  as  the  face  of  the  sea  when  clouds  and  wind 
pass  over  it. 

"  Yes,  young  lady,  I  remember." 

"I  have  come  to  denounce  her  murderer." 


INDICTMENT.  587 

Colonel  Thornton  took  up  his  pen,  and  drew  towards  him  a 
blank  form  of  a  writ,  and  sat  looking  towards  her,  and  waiting 
for  her  further  words. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  her  face  worked,  her  voice  was  choked 
and  unnatural,  as  »she  said — 

"You  will  please  to  issue  a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  Thurston 
Willcoxen." 

Colonel  Thornton  laid  down  his  pen,  arose  from  his  seat, 
and  took  her  hand  and  gazed  upon  her  with  an  expression  of 
bleuded  surprise  and  compassion. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  you  are  not  very  well.  May  I  inquire 
— are  your  friends  in  town,  or  are  you  here  alone  ?" 

"  I  am  here  alone.  Nay,  I  am  not  mad,  Colonel  Thornton, 
although  your  looks  betray  that  you  think  me  so." 

"  Xo,  no,  not  mad,  only  indisposed,"  said  the  Colonel,  in  no 
degree  modifying  his  opinion. 

"  Colonel  Thornton,  if  there  is  anything  strange  and  eccen- 
tric in  my  looks  and  manner,  you  must  set  it  down  to  the 
strangeness  of  the  position  in  which  I  am  placed." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  Miss  Thornton  is  at  the  hotel  to-day. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  take  you  to  her  ?" 

"  You  will  do  as  you  please,  Colonel  Thornton,  after  you 
shall  have  heard  iny  testimony,  and  examined  the  proofs  I  have 
to  lay  before  you.  Then  I  shall  permit  you  to  judge  of  my 
soundness  of  mind  as  you  will,  premising,  however,  that  my 
sanity  or  insanity,  can  have  no  possible  effect  upon  the  proofs 
that  I  submit,"  she  said,  laying  a  packet  upon  the  table  between, 
them. 

Something  in  her  manner  now  compelled  the  magistrate  to 
give  her  words  an  attention  for  which  he  blamed  himself,  as  for 
a  gross  wrong,  towards  his  favorite  clergyman. 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  charge  Mr.  Willcoxen  with  tho 
death  of  Miss  Mayiield  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam,  bowing  her  head. 

"  What  cause,  young  lady,  can  you  possibly  have,  for  making 
guch  a  monstrous  aud  astounding  accusation  ?" 


t'88  THE      MISSING      BKIDE. 

"  I  came  here  for  the  purpose  of  telling  you,  if  you  will  per* 
mit  me.  Nor  do  I,  since  you  doubt  my  reason,  ask  you  to  be- 
lieve my  statement,  unsupported  by  proof." 

"  Go  on,  young  lady;  I  am  all  attention." 

"  Will  you  administer  the  usual  oath  ?" 

"  No,  Miss  Shields.  I  will  hear  your  story  first  in  the  capa- 
city of  friend." 

"And  you  think  that  the  only  capacity  in  which  you  will  be 
called  upon  to  act?  Well,  may  Heaven  grant  it,"  said  Miriam, 
mid  she  began,  and  told  him  all  the  facts  that  had  recently 
come  to  her  knowledge,  ending  by  placing  the  packet  of  letters 
in  bis  hands. 

While  she  spoke,  Colonel  Thornton's  pen  was  busy  making 
minutes  of  her  statements ;  when  she  had  concluded,  he  laid 
down  the  pen,  and  turning  to  her,  asked, 

"  You  believe,  then,  that  Mr.  Willcoxen  committed  this 
murder  ?" 

"I  know  not — I  act  only  upon  the  evidence." 

"  Circumstantial  evidence,  often  as  delusive  as  it  is  fatal ' 
Do  you  think  it  possible  that  Mr.  Willcoxen  could  have  medi- 
tated such  a  crime  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no,  no !  never  meditated  it !  if  he  committed  it, 
it  was  unpremeditated,  unintentional;  the  accident  of  some 
lover's  quarrel,  some  frenzy  of  passion,  jealousy,  I  know  not 
what !" 

"  Let  me  ask  you,  then,  why  you  volunteer  to  prosecute  ?" 

"  Because  I  must  do  so.  But  tell  me,  do  you  think  what  I 
have  advanced  trivial  and  unimportant  ?"  asked  Miriam,  in  a 
hopeful  tone,  for  little  she  thought  of  herself,  if  only  her  obli- 
gation were  discharged,  and  her  brother  still  unharmed." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  so  important  as  to  constrain  mv 
instant  attention,  and  oblige  me  to  issue  a  warrant  for  the  ap- 
prehension of  Mr.  Thurston  Willcoxen,"  said  Colonel  Tuorntou, 
as  he  *vrote  rapidly,  filling  out  several  blank  documents.  'JL hen 
he  rang  a  bell,  that  was  answered  by  the  entrance  of  several 
police  officers.  To  the  first  he  gave  a  warrant,  saying. 


INDICTMENT.  589 

"You  will  serve  this  immediately  upon  Mr.  Willcoxeu." 
And  to  another  he  gave  some  half  dozen  subpoenas,  saying, 
"You  will  serve  all  these  between  this  time  and  twelve  to- 
morrow." 

When  these  functionaries  were  all  discharged,  Miriam  arose 
mid  went  to  the  magistrate. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  testimony  ?" 

"It  is  more  than  sufficient  to  commit  Mr.  Willcoxen  for 
trial ;  it  may  cost  him  his  life." 

A  sudden  paleness  passed  over  her  face ;  she  turned  to  leave 
the  office,  but  the  hand  of  death  seemed  to  clutch  her  heart, 
arresting  its  pulsations,  stopping  the  current  of  her  blood, 
smothering  her  breath,  and  she  fell  to  the  floor. 


Wearily  passed  the  day  at  Dell-Delight.  Thurston,  as  usual, 
sitting  reading  or  writing  at  his  library  table.  Paul  rambling 
uneasily  about  the  house,  now  taking  up  a  book  and  attempting 
to  read,  now  throwing  it  down  in  disgust.  Sometimes  almost 
irresistibly  impelled  to  spring  upon  his  horse  and  gallop  to 
Charlotte  Hall — then  restraining  his  strong  impulse  lest  some- 
thing important  should  transpire  at  home  during  his  absence. 
So  passed  the  day  until  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 

Paul  was  walking  up  and  down  the  long  piazza,  indifferent 
for  the  first  time  iu  his  life  to  the  loveliness  of  the  soft  April 
atmosphere,  that  seemed  to  blend,  raise  and  idealize  the  features 
of  the  landscape  until  earth,  water  and  sky  were  harmonised 
into  celestial  beauty.  Paul  was  growing  very  anxious  for  the 
reappearance  of  Miriam,  or  for  some  news  of  her  or  her  errand, 
yet  dreading  every  moment  an  arrival  of  another  sort.  "  Where 
could  the  distracted  girl  be.  Would  her  report  be  received 
and  acted  upon  by  the  magistrate  ?  if  so,  what  would  be  done  ? 
how  would  it  all  end  ?  would  Thurston  sleep  in  his  own  house 
or  in  a  prison  that  night  ?  When  would  Miriam  return  ? 
Would  she  ever  return,  after  having  assumed  such  a  task  as  she 
had  taken  upon  herself." 

These  and  other  questions  presented  themselves  every  mo- 
37 


590  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

ment,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  piazza,  keeping  an  eye 
upon  the  distant  road. 

Presently  a  cloud  of  dust  in  the  distance  arrested  both  his 
attention  and  his  promenade,  and  brought  his  anxiety  to  a  crisis. 
He  soon  perceived  a  single  horseman  galloping  rapidly  down 
the  road,  and  never  removed  his  eyes  until  the  horseman  turned 
into  the  gate  and  galloped  swiftly  up  to  the  house. 

Then  with  joy  Paul  recognized  the  rider,  and  ran  eagerly 
down  the  stairs  to  give  him  welcome,  and  reached  the  paved 
walk  just  as  Cloudy  drew  rein  and  threw  himself  from  the 
saddle. 

The  meeting  was  a  cordial,  joyous  one — with  Cloudy,  it  was 
sincere,  unmixed  joy ;  with  Paul,  it  was  only  a  pleasant  surprise 
and  a  transient  forgetfulness.  Rapid  questions  were  asked 
and  answered,  as  they  hurried  into  the  house. 

Cloudy's  ship  had  been  ordered  home  sooner  than  had  been 

expected ;  he  had  reached  Norfolk  a  week  before,  B that 

afternoon,  and  had  immediately  procured  a  horse  and  hurried 
on  home.     Hence  his  unlooked-for  arrival. 

"How  is  Tliurston  ?  how  is  Miriam?  How  are  they  all  at 
Luckenough  ?" 

"All  are  well;  the  family  at  Luckenough  are  absent  in  the 
south,  but  are  expected  home  every  week." 

"  And  where  is  Miriam  ?" 

"  At  the  village." 

"  And  Thurston  ?" 

"  In  his  library,  as  usual,"  said  Paul,  and  touched  the  bell  to 
summon  a  messenger  to  send  to  Mr.  Willcoxen. 

"  Have  you  dined,  Cloudy  ?" 

"  Yes,  no — I  ate  some  bread  and  cheese  at  the  village  ;  don;i 
fuss,  I'd  rather  wait  till  supper-time." 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Willcoxen  entered. 

Whatever  secret  anxiety  might  have  weighed  upon  the  nun 
ister's  heart,  no  sign  of  it  was  suffered  to  appear  upon  bis 
countenance,  as  smiling  cordially,  he  came  in  holding  out  his 
hand  to  welcome  his  cousin  and  early  playmate,  expressing 
enual  surprise  and  pleasure  at  seeing  him. 


INDICTMENT.  591 

Cloudy  had  to  go  over  the  ground  of  explanation  of  his 
sudden  arrival,  and  by  the  time  he  had  finished,  old  Jenny  came 
in  laughing  and  wriggling  with  joy  to  see  him.  But  Jenny  did 
not  remain  long  in  the  parlor,  she  hurried  out  into  the  kitchen 
to  express  her  feelings  professionally  by  preparing  a  welcome 
feast. 

"  And  you  are  not  married  yet,  Thurston,  as  great  a  favorite 
as  you  are  with  the  ladies  ?  How  is  that  ?  Every  time  I  come 
home,  I  expect  to  be  presented  to  a  Mrs.  Willcoxen,  and  never 
am  gratified  ;  why  is  that?" 

"  Perhaps  I  believe  in  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  never  recovered  the  disappointment  of 
losing  Miss  Le  Roy  ?" 

"Ah!  Cloudy,  people  who  live  in  glass  houses,  should  not 
throw  stones;  I  suspect  you  judge  me  by  yourself?  how  is  it 
with  you,  Cloudy  ?  has  no  fair  maiden  been  able  to  teach  you 
to  forget  your  boy-love  for  Jacquelina  ?" 

Cloudy  winced,  but  tried  to  cover  his  embarrassment  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Oh  !  I  have  been  in  love  forty  dozen  times,  I'm  always  in 
love ;  my  heart  is  continually  going  through  a  circle  from  one 
fit  to  another,  like  the  sun  through  the  signs  of  the  zodiac ; 
only  it  never  comes  to  anything." 

"  Well,  at  least  little  Jacko  is  forgotten,  which  is  one  con- 
gratulatory circumstance." 

"  Xo,  she  is  not  forgotten  ;  I  will  not  wrong  her  by  saying 
that  she  is  or  could  be !  all  other  loves  are  merely  the  foreign 
ports,  which  my  heart  visits  transiently  now  and  then.  Lina  is 
its  native  home.  I  don't  know  ho\v  it  i>.  With  most  cnses  of 
disappointment,  such  as  yours  with  Miss  Le  Roy,  I  suppose 
the  regret  may  be  short-lived  enough  ;  but  when  an  affection 
has  been  part  and  parcel  of  one's  being  from  infancy  up ;  why 
it  is  in  one's  soul  and  heart  and  blood,  so  to  speak — is  identi- 
cal with  one's  consciousness,  and  inseparable  from  one's  life." 

"  Do  you  ever  see  her  ?" 

"  See  her !  yes.  but  how  ?  at  each   return  from  a  voyaje,  I 


T»92  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

may  see  her  once,  with  an  iron  grating  between  us ;  she  dis- 
guised with  her  black  shrouding  robe  and  veil,  and  thinking 
that  she  must  suffer  here  to  expiate  the  fate  of  Doctor  Grini- 
shaw,  who,  scorpion-like,  stung  himself  to  death  with  the  venom 
of  his  own  bad  passions.  She  is  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  devoted  to 
good  works,  and  leaves  her  convent  only  in  times  of  war,  plague, 
pestilence  or  famine,  to  minister  to  the  suffering.  She  nurse .1 
me  through  the  yellow  fever,  when  I  lay  in  the  hospital,  at  New 
Orleans,  but  when  I  got  well  enough  to  recognize  her,  she  van- 
ished— evaporated — made  herself  '  thin  air,'  and  another  sister 
served  in  her  place." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  her  since  ?" 

"  Yes,  once ;  I  sought  out  her  convent,  and  went  with  the 
fixed  determination  to  reason  with  her,  and  to  persuade  her  not 
to  renew  her  vows  for  another  year ;  you  know  the  Sisters  only 
take  vows  for  a  year  at  a  time." 

"Did  you  make  any  impression  on  her  mind?"  inquired 
Thurston,  with  more  interest  than  he  had  yet  shown  in  any 
part  of  the  story. 

"'Make  any  impression  on  her  mind!'  no.  I — I  did  not 
even  attempt  to ;  how  could  I,  when  I  only  saw  her  behind  a 
grate,  with  the  prioress  on  one  side  of  her,  and  the  portress  on 
the  other  ?  My  visit  was  silent  enough,  and  short  enough,  and 
sad  enough.  Why  can't  she  come  out  of  that  ?  What  have  I 
done  to  deserve  to  be  made  miserable  ?  I  don't  deserve  it.  I 
am  the  most  ill-used  man  in  the  United  States  service." 

While  Cloudy  spoke,  old  Jenny  was  hurrying  in  and  out  be- 
tween the  house  and  the  kitchen,  and  busying  herself  with  setting 
the  table,  laying  the  cloth,  and  arranging  the  service.  But 
presently  she  came  in,  throwing  wide  the  door,  and  announcing, 

"Two  gemmun,  axin  to  see  marster." 

Thurston  arose,  and  turned  to  front  them,  while  Paul  became 
suddenly  pale,  on  recognizing  two  police  officers. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Willcoxen — good-afternoon,  gentle- 
men," said  the  foremost,  and  most  respectable-looking  of  the 
two,  lifting  his  hat,  and  bowing  to  the  fire-side  party.  Then 


INDICTMENT.  593 

replacing  it,  he  said  :  "  Mr.  Willcoxen,  will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  step  this  way,  and  give  me  your  attention,  sir."  lie  walked 
to  the  window,  and  Thurston  followed  him. 

Paul  stood  with  a  pale  face,  and  firmly  compressed  lip,  and 
gazed  after  them. 

And  Cloud)- — unsuspicious  Cloudy,  arose,  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  and  whistled  a  sea  air. 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen,  you  can  see  for  yourself  the  import  of  thU 
paper,"  said  the  officer,  handing  the  warrant. 

Thurston  read  it  and  returned  it. 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen,  myself  and  my  comrade  came  hither  on 
horseback.  Let  me  suggest  to  you  to  order  your  carriage. 
One  of  us  will  accompany  you  in  the  drive,  and  all  remarks  will 
be  avoided." 

"I  thank  you  for  the  hint,  Mr.  Jenkins;  I  had,  however, 
intended  to  do  as  you  advise,"  said  Thurston,  beckoning  his 
brother  to  approach. 

"  Paul !  I  am  a  prisoner,  say  nothing  at  present  to  Cloudy  ; 
permit  him  to  assume  that  business  takes  me  away,  and  go  now 
quietly  and  order  horses  put  to  the  carriage." 

"  Dr.  Douglass,  we  shall  want  your  company  also,"  said  the 
officer,  serving  Paul  with  a  subpoena. 

Paul  ground  his  teeth  together,  and  rushed  out  of  the  door. 

"Keep  an  eye  on  that  young  man,"  said  the  policeman  to 
his  comrade,  and  the  latter  followed  Paul  into  the  yard,  and  on 
to  the  stables. 

The  haste  and  passion  of  Paul's  manner  had  attracted 
Cloudy's  attention,  and  now  he  stood  looking  on  with  surprise 
and  inquiry. 

"Cloudy,"  said  Thurston,  approaching  him,  "a  most  press- 
ing affair  demands  my  presence  at  C this  afternoon.  Paul 

must  also  attend  me  I  may  not  return  to-night.  Paul,  how- 
ever, certainly  will.  In  the  meantime,  Cloudy,  my  boy,  make 
yourself  as  much  at  home  and  as  happy  as  you  possibly  can." 

"Oh  !  don't  mind  me  !  never  make  a  stranger  of  me.  Go  by 
all  means.  I  wouldn't  detain  you  for  the  world;  hope  it  ia 
49* 


594  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

nothing  of  a  painful  nature  that  calls  you  from  home,  however. 
Any  parishioner  ill,  dying,  aud  wanting  your  ghostly  con- 
solations ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Thurston,  smiling. 

"  Glad  of  it — go  by  all  means.  I  will  make  myself  jolly 
until  you  return,"  said  Cloudy,  walking  up  and  down  the  floor 
whistling  a  love  ditty,  and  thinking  of  little  Jacko  ;  he  always 
thought  of  her  with  tenfold  intensity  whenever  he  returned 
home,  and  came  into  her  neighborhood. 

"  Mr.  Jenkins,  will  you  follow  me  to  my  library,"  said 
Thurston. 

The  officer  bowed  assent,  and  Mr.  Willcoxen  proceeded 
thither  for  the  purpose  of  securing  his  valuable  papers,  and 
locking  his  secretary  and  writing-desk. 

After  an  absence  of  some  fifteen  minutes,  they  returned  to 
the  parlor  to  find  Paul  and  the  constable  awaiting  them. 

"Is  the  carriage  ready  ?"  asked  Mr.  Willcoxen. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  constable. 

"  Then,  I  believe,  we  also  are — is  it  not  so  ?" 

The  police  officer  bowed,  and  Mr.  Willcoxen  walked  up  to 
Cloudy  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Cloudy,  for  the  present.  Paul  will  probably  be 
home  by  nightfall,  even  if  I  should  be  detained." 

"  Oh,  don't  hurry  yourself  upon  my  account.  I  shall  do  very 
well.  Jenny  can  take  care  of  me,"  said  Cloudy,  jovially,  as  he 
shook  the  offered  hand  of  Thnrston 

Paul  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  Cloudy  in  the  face  and 
say  "Good-bye."  He  averted  his  head,  and  so  followed  Mr. 
Willcoxen  and  the  officer  into  the  yard. 

Mr.  Willcoxen,  the  senior  officer,  and  Paul  Douglass,  entered 
the  carriage,  and  the  second  constable  attended  on  horseback, 
and  so  the  party  set  out  for  Charlotte  Hall, 

Hour  after  hour  passed.  Old  Jenny  came  in  and  put  the 
supper  on  the  table,  and  stood  presiding  over  the  urn  and  tea- 
pot while  Cloudy  ate  his  supper.  Old  Jenny's  tongue  ran  a.s 
if  she  felt  obliged  to  make  up  in  conversation  for  the  absence 
of  the  rest  of  the  familv 


INDICTMENT.  595 

"  Lord  knows,  I'se  glad  'nougli  you'se  corned  back,"  she  said ; 
"  dis  yer  place  is  bad  'nough.  Sam's  been  waystiii'  here  eber 
since  de  fatn'iy  come  from  de  city — dey  must  o'  fotch  him  long 
o'  deni.  Now  I  do  'spose  sunitin  is  happen  long  o'  Miss  Miriam, 
as  went  heyin'  off  to  de  willidge  dis  mornin'  afore  she  got  her 
brekfas,  nobody  on  de  yeth  could  tell  what  fur.  Now  de  oder 
two  is  gone,  an'  nobody  lef  here  to  mine  de  house,  'cept  'tis  you 
uu' me!  Sam's  waystin' !" 

Cloudy  laughed  and  tried  to  cheer  her  spirits  by  a  gay  reply, 
and  then  they  kept  up  between  them  a  lively  badinage  of 
repartee,  hi  which  old  Jenny  acquitted  herself  quite  as  wittily  as 
her  young  master. 

And  after  supper  she  cleared  away  the  service,  and  went  to  pre- 
pare a  bed  and  light  a  fire  in  the  room  appropriated  to  Cloudy. 

And  so  the  evening  wore  away. 

It  grew  late,  yet  neither  Thurstou  nor  Paul  appeared.  Cloudy 
began  to  think  their  return  unseasonably  delayed,  and  at  eleven 
o'clock  he  took  up  his  lamp  to  retire  to  his  chamber,  when  he 
was  startled  and  arrested  by  the  barking  of  dogs,  and  by  the 
rolling  of  the  carriage  into  the  yard,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
door  was  thrown  violently  open",  and  Paul  Douglass,  pale,  hag- 
gard, convulsed,  and  despairing,  burst  suddenly  into  the  room. 

"Paul!  Paul!  what  in  the  name  of  Heaven  has  happened?" 
cried  Cloudy,  starting  up,  surprised  and  alarmed  by  his  appear- 
ance. 

"  Oh,  it  has  ended  in  his  committal! — it  has  ended  in  his 
committal! — he  is  fully  committed  for  trial! — he  was  sent  oft' 
to-night  to  the  county  jail  at  Leonardtown,  in  the  custody  of 
two  officers!" 

"  Who  is  committed?  What  are  you  talking  about,  Paul?" 
said  Cloudy,  taking  his  hand  kindly  and  looking  in  his  face. 

These  words  and  actions  brought  Paul  somewhat  to  his  senses. 

"Oh!  you  do  not  know! — you  do  not  even  guess  anything 
about  it,  Cloudy !  Oh,  it  is  a  terrible  misfortune !  Let  me  sit 
down,  and  I  will  tell  you!" 

And  Paul  Douglass  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  in  an 


596  THE       MISSING      BRIDE. 

agitated,  nearly  incoherent  manner,  related  the  circumstance? 
that  led  to  the  arrest  of  Thurston  "Willcoxen  for  the  murder  of 
Marian  May  field. 

When  he  had  concluded  the  strange  story,  Cloudy  started  up, 
took  his  hat,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Cloudy  ?" 

"To  the  stables  to  saddle  my  horse,  to  ride  to  Leonardlown 
this  night!" 

"  It  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock." 

"  T  know  it,  but  by  hard  riding  I  can  reach  Leonardtown  by 
morning,  and  be  with  Thnrston  as  soon  as  the  prison-doors  are 
opened.  And  I  will  ask  you,  Paul,  to  be  kind  enough  to  for- 
ward my  trunks  from  the  tavern  at  Benedict  to  Leonardtown, 
where  I  shall  remain  to  be  near  Thurstou  as  long  as  he  needs 
my  services." 

"  God  bless  you,  Cloudy !  I  myself  wished  to  accompany  him , 
but  he  would  not  for  a  moment  hear  of  my  doing  so — he  entreated 
me  to  return  hither  to  take  care  of  poor  Fanny  and  the  home- 
stead. 

Cloudy  scarcely  waited  to  hear  this  benediction,  but  hurried 
to  the  stables,  found  and  saddled  his  horse,  threw  himself  into  the 
stirrups,  and  in  five  minutes  was  dashing  rapidly  through  the 
thick,  tow-lying  forest  stretching  inland  from  the  coast. 

Eight  hours  of  hard  riding  brought  him  to  the  county  seat. 

Just  stopping  long  enough  to  have  his  horse  put  up  at  the 
best  hotel,  and  to  inquire  his  way  to  the  prison,  he  i  urried 
tnither. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  the  street  comers  were 
thronged  with  loungers  conversing  in  low,  eager  tones  upon  the 
present  all-absorbing  topic  of  discourse — the  astounding  event 
of  the  arrest  of  the  great  preacher,  the  Reverend  Thurston 
Willcoxen,  upon  the  charge  of  murder. 

Hurrying  past  all  these,  Cloudy  reached  the  jail.  He  readily 
gained  admittance,  and  was  conducted  to  the  cell  of  the  pri- 
soner. He  found  Thurston  attired  as  when  he  left  home,  sitting 
at  a  small  wooden  stand,  and  calmly  occupied  with  his  peu. 


INDICTMENT.  597 

He  arose,  and  smilingly  extended  his  hand,  saying, 

"  This  is  very  kind  as  well  as  very  prompt,  Cloudy.  You 
must  have  ridden  fast." 

"I  did.  Leave  us  alone,  if  you  please,  my  friend,"  said 
Cloudy,  turning  to  the  jailor. 

The  latter  went  out,  and  locked  the  door  upon  the  friends. 

"This  seems  a  sad  event  to  greet  you  on  your  return  home, 
CJoudy :  but  never  mind,  it  will  all  be  well!" 

"Sad?  It's  a  farce!  I  have  not  an  instant's  misgiving 
about  the  result;  but  the  present  indignity  !  Oh  !  oh !  I  could — " 

"  Be  calm,  my  dear  Cloudy.  Have  you  heard  anything  of 
the  circumstances  that  led  to  this  ?" 

"Yes!  Paul  told  me  ;  but  he  is  as  crazy  and  incoherent  as 
a  Bedlamite!  I  want  you,  if  you  please,  Thurston,  if  you  have 
no  objection,  to  go  over  the  whole  story  for  me,  that  I  may  see 
if  I  can  make  anything  of  it,  for  your  defence." 

11  Poor  Paul !  he  takes  this  matter  far  too  deeply  to  heart  • 
sit  down.  I  have  not  a  second  chair  to  offer,  but  take  this  or 
the  foot  of  the  cot,  as  you  prefer." 

Cloudy  took  the  foot  of  the  cot. 

"  Certainly,  Cloudy,  I  will  tell  you  everything,"  said  Thurs 
ton,  and  forthwith  commenced  his  explanation. 

Thurston's  narrative  was  clear  and  to  the  point.  When  it  was 
finished,  Cloudy  asked  a  number  of  questions,  chiefly  referring 
to  the  day  of  the  tragedy.  When  these  were  answered,  he  sat 
with  his  brows  gathered  dowii  in  astute  thought.  Presently  he 
asked, 

"  Thurston,  have  you  engaged  counsel  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  Mr.  Romford  has  been  with  me  this  mornin/  " 

"  Is  he  fully  competent?" 

"  The  best  lawyer  in  the  state." 

"  When  does  the  court  sit  ?" 

"  On  Monday  week." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  whether  your  trial  will  come  on  early  in 
the  session  ?" 

"  I  presume  it  will  come  on  very  soon,  as  Mr.  Romford  in 
forms  me  there  are  but  few  cases  on  the  docket." 


598  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Thank  Heaven  for  that,  as  your  confinement  here  promises 
to  be  of  very  short  duration.  However,  the  limited  time  makes 
it  the  more  necessary  for  me  to  act  with  the  greater  promptitude. 
J  came  here  with  the  full  intention  of  remaining  in  town  as 
long  as  you  should  be  detained  in  this  infernal  place,  but  I  shall 
have  to  leave  you  within  the  hour." 

"  Of  course,  Cloudy,  my  dear  boy,  I  could  not  expect  you  to 
restrict  yourself  to  this  town  so  soon  after  escaping  from  the 
confinement  of  your  ship  !" 

"  Oh!  you  don't  understand  me  at  all !  Do  you  think  I  nm 
going  away  on  my  own  business,  or  amusement,  while  you  are 
here  ?  To  the  devil  with  the  thought — begging  your  rever- 
ence's pardon.  No,  I  am  going  in  search  of  Jacquelina. 
Since  hearing  your  explanation,  particularly  that  part  of  it  re- 
lating to  your  visit  to  Luckenough,  upon  the  morning  of  the 
day  of  Marian's  death,  and  the  various  scenes  that  occurred 
there — certain  vague  ideas  of  my  own  have  taken  form  and 
color — and  I  feel  convinced  that  Jacquelina  could  throw  some 
light  upon  this  affair." 

"  Indeed  !  why  should  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Oh !  from  many  small  indexes,  which  I  have  neither  the 
time  nor  the  inclination  to  tell  you  ;  for  taken  apart  from  col- 
lateral circumstances  and  associations,  they  would  appear  vision- 
ary. Each  in  itself  is  really  trivial  enough,  but  in  the  mass 
they  are  very  indicative.  At  least  I  think  so,  and  I  must  seek 
Jacquelina  out  immediately.  And  to  do  so,  Thurston,  I  must 
leave  you  this  moment,  for  there  is  a  boat  to  leave  the  wharf 
for  Baltimore  this  morning,  if  it  has  not  already  gone.  It  will 
take  me  two  days  to  reach  Baltimore,  another  day  to  get  to  her 
convent,  and  it  will  altogether  be  five  or  six  days  before  I  can 
get  back  here.  Good-bye,  Thurston,  Heaven  keep  ycu,  and 
give  you  a  speedy  deliverance  from  this  black  hole !" 

And  Cloudy  threw  his  arms  around  Thurston  in  a  brotherly 
embrace,  and  then  knocked  at  the  door  to  be  let  out. 

In  half-an-hour,  Cloudy  was  "once  more  upon  the  waters," 
in  full  sail  for  Baltimore. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 


"  Rise  !  for  the  day  is  breaking, 

Though  the  dull  night  be  long; 
Rise !  God  is  not  forsaking 
Thy  heart — be  strouy!  be  strong  I 

Ripe!  for  the  time  is  basting 

When  lifB  shall  be  made  clear 
And  all  who  know  heart-wasting. 

Shall  feel  that  God  is  dear!"— C.  H.  T. 

GREAT  was  the  consternation  caused  by  the  arrest  of  a  gen- 
tinman  so  high  in  social  rank  and  scholastic  and  theological 
reputation,  as  the  Reverend  Tlmrston  Willcoxen,  and  upon  a 
charge,  too,  so  awful  as  that  for  which  he  stood  committed  ! 
It  was  the  one  all-absorbing  subject  of  thought  and  conversa- 
tion. People  neglected  their  business,  iorgetting  to  work,  to 
bargain,  buy  or  sell.  Village  shop-keepers,  instead  of  vamping 
their  wares,  leaned  eagerly  over  their  counters,  and  with  great 
dilated  eyes  and  dogmatical  fore-fingers,  discussed  with  ens 
toraers  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  great  case.  Tillage  mecha- 
nics, occupied  solely  with  the  subject  of  the  pastor's  guilt  or 
innocence,  disappointed  with  impunity  customers  who  were 
themselves  too  deeply  interested  and  too  highly  excited  by  the 
same  subject,  to  remember,  far  less  to  rebuke  them,  for  unful- 
filled engagements.  Even  women  totally  neglected,  or  badly 
fulfilled,  their  domestic  avocations;  for  who  in  the  parish 
could  sit  down  quietly  to  the  construction  of  a  garment  or  a 
pudding  while  their  beloved  pastor,  the  "  all  praised"  Thurs- 
ton  Willcoxen,  lay  in  prison  awaiting  his  trial  for  a  capital 
crime  ? 

As  usual  in  such  cases,  there  was  very  little  cool  reasoning, 
ana  very  much  passionate  declamation.     The  first  astonishment 

(599) 


COO  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

had  given  place  to  conjecture,  which  yielded  in  turn  to  dog- 
matic judgments — acquiescing  or  condemning,  as  the  self-con- 
stituted judges  happened  to  be  favorable  or  adverse  to  the 
cause  of  the  minister. 

In  a  word,  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  circumstances 
attending  a  Boston  tragedy,  that  electrified  the  country  some 
few  years  ago,  can  readily  imagine  the  social  convulsion  that 
ensued  upon  the  arrest  of  a  clergyman  so  justly  celebrated,  so 
honored  and  beloved,  upon  a  charge  so  horrible  and  loathly. 

When  the  first  Sabbath  after  the  arrest  came,  and  the  church 
was  closed  because  the  pulpit  was  unoccupied,  the  dispersed 
congregation,  haunted  by  the  vision  of  the  absent  pastor  in 
his  cell,  discussed  the  matter  anew,  and  differed  and  disputed, 
and  fell  out  worse  than  ever — parties  formed  for  and  against 
the  minister,  and  party  feuds  raged  high. 

Upon  the  second  Sabbath — being  the  day  before  the  county 
court  should  sit — a  substitute  filled  the  pulpit  of  Mr.  Will- 
eoxen,  and  his  congregation  re-assembled  to  hear  an  edifying 
discourse  from  the  text — "I  myself  have  seen  the  ungodly  in 
great  power,  and  flourishing  like  a  green  bay  tree.  I  went  by, 
and  lo  !  he  was  gone  ;  I  sought  him,  but  hi?  place  was  nowhere 
to  be  found." 

This  sermon  bore  rather  hard  (by  pointed  allusions)  upon  the 
great  elevation  and  sudden  downfall  of  the  celebrated  minister, 
and,  in  consequence,  delighted  one  portion  of  the  audience  and 
enraged  the  other.  The  last-mentioned  charged  the  new 
preacher  with  envy,  hatred  and  malice,  and  all  uncharitable- 
ness,  besides  the  wish  to  rise  on  the  ruin  of  his  unfortunate 
predecessor,  and  they  went  home  in  high  indignation,  resolved 
not  to  set  foot  within  the  parish  church  again  until  the  honor- 
able acquittal  of  their  own  beloved  pastor  should  put  all  his 
enemies,  persecutors,  and  slanderers  to  shame. 

The  excitement  spread,  and  gained  force  and  fire  with  space. 
The  press  took  it  up,  and  went  to  war  as  the  people  had  done. 
And  as  far  as  the  name  of  Thurston  Willcoxen  had  been  wafted 
by  the  breath  of  fame,  it  was  now  blown  by  the  "Blatant 


MARIAN.  601 

Beast."  Aye,  and  farther  too !  for  those  wno  had  never  even 
heard  of  his  great  talents,  his  learning,  his  eloquence,  his  zeal 
and  his  charity,  were  made  familiar  with  his  imputed  crime  and 
shuddered  while  they  denounced.  And  this  was  natural  and 
well,  so  far  as  it  went  to  prove  that  great  excellence  is  so  much 
less  rare  than  great  evil,  as  to  excite  less  attention.  The  news 
of  this  signal  event  spread  like  wildfire  all  over  the  country, 
from  Maine  to  Louisiana,  and  from  Missouri  to  Florida,  pro- 
ducing everywhere  great  excitement,  but  falling  iu  three  places 
with  the  crushing  force  of  a  thunderbolt. 

First  by  Marian's  fireside. 

In  a  private  parlor  of  a  quiet  hotel,  in  one  of  the  eastern 
cities,  sat  the  lady,  now  nearly  thirty  years  of  age,  yet  still  in 
the  bloom  of  her  womanly  beauty. 

She  had  lately  arrived  from  Europe,  charged  with  one  of 
those  benevolent  missions  which  it  was  the  business  and  the 
consolation  of  her  life  to  fulfill. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  low  descending  sun 
threw  its  golden  gleam  across  the  round  table  at  which  she  sat, 
busily  engaged  with  reading  reports,  making  notes,  and  writing 
letters  connected  with  the  affair  upon  which  she  had  come. 

Seven  years  had  not  changed  Marian  much — a  little  less 
vivid,  perhaps,  the  bloom  on  cheeks  and  lips,  a  shade  paler  the 
angel  brow,  a  shade  darker  the  rich  and  lustrous  auburn  tresses, 
softer  and  calmer,  fuller  of  thought  and  love  the  clear  blue 
eyes — sweeter  her  tones,  and  gentler  all  her  motions — that  was 
all.  Her  dress  was  insignificant,  in  material,  make  and  color, 
yet  the  wearer  unconsciously  imparted  a  classic  and  regal  graco 
to  every  fold  and  fall  of  the  drapery.  No  splendor  of  apparel 
could  have  given  such  effect  to  her  individual  beauty  as  this 
quiet  costume ;  I  would  I  were  an  artist,  that  I  might  repro- 
duce her  image  as  she  was — the  glorious  face  and  head,  the 
queenly  form,  in  its  plain  but  graceful  robe  of  I  know  not  what 
— gray  serge,  perhaps. 

Her  whole  presence — her  countenance,  manner  and  tone  re- 
vealed the  richness,  strength  ai.d  serenity  of  a  faithful,  loving, 


t)'02  THE       MISSING       BRIDE. 

self-denying,  God-reliant  soul — of  one  who  could  recall  the  past, 
endure  the  present,  and  anticipate  the  future  without  regret, 
complaint  or  fear. 

Sometimes  the  lady's  soft  eyes  would  lift  themselves  from 
her  work,  to  rest  with  tenderness  upon  the  form  of  a  little  child, 
so  small  and  still  that  you  would  not  have  noticed  her  presence, 
but  in  following  the  lady's  loving  glance.  She  sat  in  a  tiny 
rocking  chair,  nursing  a  little  white  rabbit  on  her  lap.  She 
was  not  a  beautiful  child — she  was  too  diminutive  and  pale, 
with  hazy  blue  eyes,  and  fady  yellow  hair — yet  her  little  face 
was  so  demure  and  sweet,  so  meek  and  loving,  that  it  would 
haunt  and  soften  you  more  than  that  of  a  beautiful  child  could. 
The  child  had  been  orphaned  from  her  birth,  and  when  but  a 
few  days  old,  had  been  received  into  the  "  Children's  Home." 

Marian  never  had  a  favorite  among  her  children,  but  this 
little  waif  was  so  completely  orphaned,  so  desolate  and  desti- 
tute, and  withal  so  puny,  fragile,  and  lifeless,  that  Marian  took 
her  to  her  own  heart  day  and  night,  imparting  from  her  own 
fine  vital  temperament  the  warmth  and  vigor  that  nourished  the 
perishing  little  human  blossom  to  life  and  health.  If  ever  a 
mother's  heart  lived  in  a  maiden's  bosom,  it  was  in  Marian's. 
As  she  had  cherished  Miriam,  she  now  cherished  Augel,  and 
she  was  as  fondly  loved  by  the  one  as  she  had  been  by  the 
other.  And  so  for  five  years  past  Angel  had  been  Marian's 
inseparable  companion.  She  sat  with  her  little  lesson,  or  her 
sewing,  or  her  pet  rabbit,  at  Marian's  feet  while  she  worked — 
held  her  hand  when  she  walked  out,  sat  by  her  side  at  the  table 
or  in  the  carriage,  and  slept  nestled  in  her  arms  at  night. 
She  was  the  one  earthly  blossom  that  bloomed  in  Marian's  soli- 
tary path. 

Angel  now  sat  with  her  rabbit  on  her  knees,  waiting  de- 
murely till  Marian  should  have  time  to  notice  her. 

And  the  lady  still  worked  on,  stopping  once  in  a  while  to 
smile  upon  the  jliild.  There  was  a  file  of  the  evening  papers 
lying  near  at  hand  upon  the  table  where  she  wrote,  but  Marian 
had  not  vet  had  time  to  look  at  them.  Soon,  however,  she  had 


MARIAN.  603 

occasion  to  refer  to  one  of  them  for  the  names  of  the  members 
of  the  Committee  on  Public  Lands.  In  casting  her  eyes  over 
the  paper,  her  glance  suddenly  lighted  upon  a  paragraph  that 
sent  all  the  blood  from  her  cheeks  to  her  heart.  She  dropped 
the  paper,  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and  covered  her  blanched 
face  with  both  hands,  and  strove  for  self-control. 

Angel  softly  put  down  the  rabbit,  and  gently  stole  to  her 
side  and  looked  up  with  her  little  face  full  of  wondering  sym- 
pathy. 

Presently  Marian  began  passing  her  hands  slowly  over  her 
forehead,  with  a  sort  of  unconscious  self-mesmerism,  and  then  she 
dropped  them  wearily  upon  her  lap,  and  Angel  saw  how  pallid 
was  her  face,  how  ashen  and  tremulous  her  lip,  how  quivering 
her  hands.  But  after  a  few  seconds,  Marian  stooped  and  picked 
the  paper  up,  and  read  the  long,  wonder-mongering  affair,  in 
which  all  that  had  been,  and  all  that  had  seemed,  as  well  as  many 
things  that  could  neither  be  nor  seem,  was  related  at  length,  or 
conjectured,  or  suggested.  It  began  by  announcing  the  arrest 
of  the  Reverend  Thurston  Willcoxen  upon  the  charge  of  mur- 
der, and  then  went  back  to  the  beginning,  and  related  the 
whole  story,  from  the  first  disappearance  of  Marian  Mayfield,  to 
the  late  discoveries  that  had  led  to  the  apprehension  of  the  sup- 
posed murderer,  with  many  additions  and  improvements  gathered 
in  the  rolling  of  the  ball  of  falsehood.  Among  the  rest,  that 
the  body  of  the  unhappy  young  lady  had  been  washed  ashore 
several  miles  below  the  scene  of  her  dreadful  fate,  and  had  been 
charitably  interred  by  some  poor  fishermen.  The  article  con- 
cluded by  describing  the  calm  demeanor  of  the  accused  and  the 
contemptuous  manner  in  which  he  treated  a  charge  so  grave, 
soorning  even  to  deny  it. 

"Oh,  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  horror  and  consternation  this 
matter  has  caused.  When  the  deed  was  attempted,  more  than 
the  intended  death  wound  did  it  overcome  me !  And  nothing, 
not/i-iny  in  the  universe  but  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses  could 
have  convinced  me  of  his  purposed  guilt!  And  still  I  cannot 
'ealize  it  1  He  must  have  been  insane  !  But  he  treats  the  dis- 


604  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

eovery  of  his  intended  and  supposed  crime  with  scorn  and  con- 
tempt !  Alas  !  alas !  is  this  the  end  of  years  of  Buffering  and 
probation  ?  Is  this  the  fruit  of  that  long  remorse,  frora  which 
]  had  hoped  so  much  for  his  redemption  ?  A  remorse  without 
repentance,  and  barren  of  reformation!  Yet  I  must  save 
him!" 

She  arose  and  rung  the  bell,  and  gave  orders  to  have  two 
scats  secured  for  her  in  the  coach  that  would  leave  in  the  morn- 
ing for  Baltimore.  And  then  she  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  floor,  to  try  and  walk  off  the  excitement  that  was  fast  gaining 
upon  her. 

Before  this  night  and  this  discovery,  not  for  the  world  would 
Marian  have  made  her  existence  known  to  him,  far  less  would 
she  have  sought  his  presence.  Xay,  deeming  such  a  meeting 
improper  as  it  was  impossible,  her  mind  had  never  contemplated 
it  for  an  instant.  She  had  watched  his  course,  sent  anonymous 
donations  to  his  chanties,  hoped  much  from  his  repentance  and 
good  works,  but  never  hoped  in  any  regard  to  herself.  But 
now  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  make  her  ex- 
istence known\to  him.  She  would  go  to  him  !  She  must  save 
him  !  She  should  see  him,  and  speak  to  him — him  whom  she 
had  never  hoped  to  meet  again  in  life  !  She  would  see  him 
again  in  three  days  !  The  thought  was  too  exciting  even  fot 
her  strong  heart  and  frame,  and  calm  self-governing  nature ! 
And  in  defiance  of  reason  and  of  will,  her  long-buried  youth- 
ful love,  her  pure,  earnest,  single-hearted  love,  burst  its  secret 
sepulchre,  and  rejoiced  through  all  her  nature.  The  darkness 
of  Ihe  past  was,  for  the  time,  forgotten.  Memory  recalled  no 
picture  of  uukindness,  injustice,  or  inconstancy.  Even  the 
scene  upon  the  beach  was  faded,  gone,  lost.  But  the  light  of 
the  past  glowed  around  her — their  seaside  strolls  and  woodland 
wanderings — 

"  The  still,  green  places  where  they  met, 
The  moonlit  branches  dewy  wet. 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word. 
The  smile,  the  embrace,  the  tone  that  made 
An  IMen  of  the  forr.st  abode."' 


MARIAN.  605 

kindling  a  pure  rapture  from  memory,  and  a  wild  longing  from 
Lope,  Urn;,  her  full  heart  could  scarce  contain. 

But  ;oon  came  on  another  current  of  thought  and  feelirg 
opposed  to  the  first — doubt  and  fear  of  the  meeting.  For  her- 
self she  felt  that  she  could  forget  all  the  sorrows  of  the  past, 
aye !  and  with  fervent  glowing  soul,  and  flushed  cheeks,  and 
tearful  eyes,  and  clasped  hands,  she  adored  the  Father  in  Heaven 
that  He  had  put  no  limit  to  forgiveness — no !  in  that  blessed 
path  of  light  all  space  was  open  to  the  human  will,  and  the 
heart  might  forgive  infinitely — and  to  its  own  measureless  ex- 
tent 1 

But  how  would  Thurston  meet  her  ?  He  had  suffered  such 
tortures  from  remorse,  that  doubtfess  he  would  rejoice  "  with 
exceeding  great  joy"  to  find  that  the  deed  attempted  in  some 
fit  of  madness,  had  really  not  been  effected.  But  his  sufferings 
had  sprung  from  remorse  of  conscience,  not  from  remorse  of 
love.  No !  except  as  his  deliverer,  he  would  probably  not  be 
pleased  to  see  her.  As  soon  as  this  thought  had  seized  her 
mind,  then  indeed  all  th6  bitterer  scenes  in  the  past  started  up 
to  life,  and  broke  down  the  defences  re'ared  by  lefe,  and,  faith, 
and  hope,  and  let  in  the  tide  of  anguish  and  despair  that  rolled 
over  her  soul,  shaking  it  as  it  had  not  been  shaken  for  many 
years.  And  her  head  fell  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  hands 
were  clasped  convulsively,  as  she  walked  up  and  down  the  floor 
— striving  with  herself — striving  to  subdue  the  rebel  passions 
of  her  heart— striving  to  attain  her  wonted  calmness,  ai  d 
strength,  and  self-possession,  and  at  last  praying  earnestly — 
"  Oh,  Father  1  the  rains  descend,  and  the  floods  come,  and  the 
winds  blow  and  beat  upon  my  soul ;  let  not  its  strength  fall  as 
if  built  upon  the  sand."  And  so  she  walked  up  and  down, 
striving  and  praying ;  nor  was  the  struggle  in  vain — once  more 
she  "conquered  a  peace"  in  her  own  bosom. 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  little  Angel.  The  infant  was 
drooping  over  one  arm  of  her  rocking-chair,  like  a  fading  lily, 
but  her  soft  hazy  eyes,  full  of  vague  sympathy,  followed  the  lady 
wherever  she  went. 

38 


606  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Marian's  heart  smote  her  for  her  temporary  forgetfulness  ol 
the  child's  wants.  It  was  now  twilight,  and  Marian  rang  for 
lights,  and  Angel's  milk  and  bread,  which  were  soon  brought. 

And  then  with  her  usual  quiet  tenderness,  she  undressed  the 
little  one,  heard  her  prayers,  took  her  up,  and  as  she  rocked, 
sang  a  sweet  low  evening  hymn,  that  soothed  the  child  to  sleep, 
and  her  own  heart  to  perfect  rest.  And  early  the  next  morning, 
Marian  and  little  Angel  set  out  by  the  first  coach  for  Baltimore, 
on  their  way  to  St.  Mary's  county. 

The  Convent  of  Bethlehem  was  not  only  the  sanctuary  of  pro- 
fessed nuns,  the  school  of  girls,  the  nursery  of  orphans,  but  it 
was  also  the  temporary  home  of  those  Sisters  of  Mercy,  who  go 
forth  into  the  world  only  on  errands  of  Christian  love  and 
charity,  and  return  to  their  convent  often  only  to  die,  worn  out 
by  toil  among  scenes  and  sufferers  near  which  few  but  them- 
selves would  venture.  And  as  they  pass  hence  to  Heaven, 
their  ranks  are  still  filled  up  from  the  world — not  always  by  the 
weary  and  disappointed.  Often  young  Catholic  girls  volun- 
tarily leave  the  untried  world  that  is  smiling  fair  before  them  to 
enter  upon  a  life  of  poverty,  self-denial,  and  merciful  ministra- 
tions ;  so  even  in  this  century  the  order  of  the  Sisters  of  Mercj 
is  kept  up. 

Among  the  most  active  and  zealous  of  the  order  of  Bethlehem 
was  the  Sister  Theresa,  the  youngest  of  the  band.  Youthful  as 
she  was,  however,  this  sister's  heart  was  no  sweet  sacrifice  of 
"  a  flower  offered  in  the  bud — "  on  the  contrary  I  am  afraid 
that  Sister  Theresa  had  trifled  with,  and  pinched,  and  bruised, 
and  trampled  the  poor  budding  heart,  until  she  thought  it  good 
for  nothing  upon  earth,  before  she  offered  it  to  heaven.  I  fear 
it  was  nothing  higher  than  that  strange  revulsion  of  feeiing, 
vorld  weariness,  disappointment,  disgust,  remorse,  fanaticism — 
either,  any,  or  all  of  these,  call  it  what  you  will,  that  in  past 
ages  and  Catholic  countries  have  filled  monasteries  with  the 
whilome  gay,  worldly  and  ambitious;  that  has  sent  many  a 
woman  in  the  prime  of  her  beauty,  and  many  a  man  at  the  acme 


MARIAN  607 

of  his  power,  into  a  convent ;  that  transformed  the  mighty  Em- 
peror Charles  V.  into  a  cowled  and  shrouded  monk ;  the  reck- 
less swash-burklar,  Ignatius  Loyola,  into  a  holy  saint,  and  the 
beautiful  Louise  de  la  Yalliere  into  an  ascetic  nun  ;  which 
finally  metamorphosed  the  gayest,  maddest,  merriest  elf  that 
ever  danced  into  the  moonlight,  into — Sister  Theresa. 

Poor  Jacquelina  1  for,  of  course,  you  can  have  no  doubt  that 
it  is  of  her  we  are  speaking — she  perpetrated  her  last  lugubrious 
joke  on  the  day  that  she  was  to  have  made  her  vows,  for  when 
asked  what  patron  saint  she  would  select  by  taking  that  saint's 
name  in  religion,  she  answered — St.  Theresa,  because  St.  The- 
resa would  understand  her  case  the  best,  having  been,  like  her- 
self, a  scamp  and  a  rattle-brain  before  she  took  it  into  her  head 
to  astonish  her  friends  by  becoming  a  saint.  Poor  Jacko  said 
this  with  the  solemnest  face  and  the  most  serious  earnestness, 
but  with  such  a  reputation  as  she  had  had  for  pertness,  of  course 
nobody  would  believe  but  that  she  was  making  fun  of  the 
"Blessed  Theresa,"  and  so  she  was  put  upon  farther  probation, 
with  the  injunction  to  say  the  seven  penitential  psalms  seven 
times  a  day,  until  she  was  in  a  holier  frame  of  mind ;  which  she 
did,  though  under  protest,  that  she  didn't  think  the  words  com- 
posed by  David,  to  express  his  remorse  for  his  own  enormous 
sin,  exactly  suited  her  case.  Sister  Theresa,  if  the  least  steady 
and  devout,  was  certainly  the  most  active  and  zealous  and  cou- 
rageous among  them  all.  She  yawned  horribly  over  the  long 
litanies  and  longer  sermons  ;  but  if  ever  there  was  a  work  of 
mercy  requiring  extraordinary  labor,  privation,  exposure  and 
danger,  Sister  Theresa  was  the  one  to  face  in  the  cause  light- 
ning and  tempest ;  plague,  pestilence,  and  famine ;  battle,  and 
murder,  and  sudden  death  1  Happy  was  she  ?  or  content  ?  Xo 
— she  was  moody,  hysterical,  and  devotional  by  turns — some- 
times a  zeal  for  good  works  would  possess  her;  sometimes  the 
old  fun  and  quaintness  would  break  out;  and  sometimes  an 
overwhelming  fit  of  remorse ; — each  depending  xipon  the  acci- 
dental cause  that  would  chance  to  arouse  the  moods. 

Humane  creatures  are  like  climates — some  of  a  temperate 


COS  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

atmosphere,  take  even  life-long  sorrow  serenely — never  forget- 
ting, and  never  exaggerating  its  cause — never  very  wretched, 
if  never  quite  happy.  Others  of  a  more  torrid  nature,  have 
long  sunny  seasons  of  bird-like  cheerfulness  and  happy  forget- 
fulness,  until  some  slight  cause,  striking  "the  electric  caain 
wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound,"  shall  startle  up  memory — and 
grief,  intensely  realized,  shall  rise  to  anguish,  and  a  storm  shall 
pass  through  the  soul,  shaking  it  almost  to  dissolution,  and  the 
poor  subject  thinks,  if  she  can  think,  that  her  heart  must  go  to 
pieces  this  time !  But  the  storm  passes,  and  nature,  instead  of 
being  destroyed,  is  refreshed  and  ready  for  the  sunshine  and 
the  song-birds  again.  The  elastic  heart  throws  off  its  weight, 
the  spirits  revive,  and  life  goes  on  joyously  in  harmony  with 
nature. 

So  it  was  with  Jacquelina,  with  this  sad  difference,  that  as 
her  trouble  was  more  than  sorrow — as  it  was  remorse — it  was 
never  quite  thrown  off.  It  was  not  that  her  conscience  re- 
proached her  for  the  fate  of  Dr.  Grinishaw,  which  was  brought 
on  by  his  own  wrong  doing — but  Marian — that  a  wild,  wanton 
frolic  of  her  own  should  have  caused  the  early  death  of  one  so 
young,  and  beautiful,  and  good  as  Marian  !  that  was  the  thought 
that  nearly  drove  poor  Jacquelina  mad  with  remorse,  whenever 
she  realized  it.  Dr.  Grimshaw  was  forgiven,  and — forgotten ; 
but  the  thought  of  Marian  was  the  "  undying  worm,"  that  preyed 
upon  her  heart.  And  so,  year  after  year,  despite  the  arguments 
and  persuasions  of  nearest  friends,  and  the  constancy  of  poor 
Cloudy,  Jacquelina  tearfully  turned  from  love,  friendship,  wealth 
and  ease,  and  renewed  her  vows  of  poverty,  celibacy,  obedieui-e, 
and  the  service  of  the  poor,  sick  and  ignorant,  in  the  hope  of 
expiating  her  offence,  soothing  the  voice  of  conscience,  and 
gaining  peace.  Jacquelina  would  have  made  her  vows  pei- 
petual,  by  taking  the  black  veil,  but  her  Superior  constantly 
dissuaded  her  from  it — she  was  young,  and  life,  with  its  possi- 
bilities, was  all  before  her;  she  must  wait  many  years  before  she 
took  the  step  that  could  not  be  retracted  without  perjury.  And 
fio  each  year  she  renewed  her  vow  a  twelvemonth.  The  seventh 


MARIAN.  609 

year  of  her  religious  life  was  drawing  to  its  close,  and  she  had 
notified  her  superior  of  her  wish  now,  after  so  many  years  of 
probation,  to  take  the  black  veil,  and  make  her  vows  perpetual. 
And  the  Abbess  had,  at  length,  listened  favorably  to  her  ex- 
pressed wishes. 

But  a  few  days  after  this,  as  the  good  old  Mother,  Martha, 
the  portress,  sat  dozing  over  her  rosary,  behind  the  hall  grating 
— the  outer  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a  young  man,  in  a  mid- 
shipman's undress  uniform,  entered  rather  brusquely,  and  came 
up  to  the  grating.  Touching  his  hat  precisely  as  if  the  old 
lady  had  been  his  superior  officer,  he  said  hastily, 

"Madame,  if  you  please,  I  wish  to  see  Mrs.  ;  you 

know  who  I  mean,  I  presume?  my  cousin,  Jacquelina." 

The  portress  knew  well  enough,  for  she  had  seen  Cloudy  there 
several  times  before,  but  she  replied, 

"  You  mean,  young  gentleman,  that  pious  daughter,  called 
in  the  world  Mrs.  Grimshaw,  but  in  religion  Sister  Theresa?" 

"  Fal  lal ! — that  is — I  beg  your  pardon,  Mother,  but  I  wish 
to  see  the  lady  immediately ;  can  I  do  so  ? 

"  The  dear  sister  Theresa  is  at  present  making  her  retreat, 
preparatory  to  taking  the  black  veil." 

"  The  what !"  exclaimed  Cloudy,  with  as  much  horror  as  if  it 
had  been  the  '  Hack  dose1  she  was  going  to  take. 

"  The  black  veil — and  so  she  cannot  be  seen." 

"Madam  I  have  a  very  pressing  form  of  invitation  here, 
which  people  are  not  very  apt  to  disregard.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  subposna,  dear  Mother  ?" 

The  good  woman  never  had,  but  she  thought  it  evidently 
something  "  uncanny,"  for  she  said — "  I  will  send  for  the  Ab- 
bess;" and  she  beckoned  to  a  nun  within,  and  sent  her  on  the 
errand — and  soon  the  Abbess  appeared,  and  Cloudy  made 
known  the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  Go  into  the  parlor,  sir,  and  Sister  Theresa  will  attend 
you,"  said  that  lady. 

And  Cloudy  turned  to  a  side  door  on  his  right  hand,  and 
wont  into  the  little  receiving  room,  three  sides  of  which  were 


I 

610  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

like  other  rooms,  but  the  fourth  side  was  a  grating  instead  of  a 
wall.  Behind  this  grating  appeared  Jacquelina — so  white  and 
thin  with  confinement,  fasting,  and  vigil,  and  so  disguised  by 
her  nun's  dress,  as  to  be  unrecognizable  to  any  but  a  lover's 
eyes :  with  her  was  the  Abbess. 

Cloudy  went  up  to  the  grating — Jacquelina  put  her  hand 
through,  and  spoke  a  kind  greeting ;  but  Cloudy  glanced  at 
the  Abbess,  looked  reproachfully  at  Jacquelina,  and  then 
turning  to  the  former  said, — 

"  Madam,  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  in  confidence,  to  my 
cousin  here.  Can  I  be  permitted  to  do  so  ?" 

"Most  certainly,  young  gentleman;  Sister  Theresa  is  not 
restricted.  It  was  at  her  own  request  that  I  attended  her 
hither." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  lady — that  which  I  have  to  say  to — • 
Sister  Theresa — involves  the  confidence  of  others:  else,  I 
Rhould  not  have  made  the  request  that  you  have  so  kindly 
granted,"  said  Cloudy,  considerably  mollified. 

The  Abbess  curtsied  in  the  old  stately  way,  and  retired. 

Cloudy  looked  at  Jacquelina  reproachfully. 

"  Are  yon  going  to  be  a  nun,  Lina  ?" 

"  Yes.  Oh!  Cloudy,  Cloudy,  what  do  you  come  here  to  dis 
turb  my  thoughts  so  for!  Oh!  Cloudy  1  every  time  you  come 
to  see  me,  you  do  so  upset  aud  confuse  my  mind !  You  have 
no  idea  how  many  aves  and  paters,  and  psalms  and  litanies  I 
have  to  say  before  I  can  quiet  my  mind  down  again  !  And 
now  this  is  worse  than  all.  Dear,  dear  Cloudy ! — St.  Mary, 
forgive  me,  I  never  meant  that — I  meant  plain  Cloudy — see 
how  you  make  me  sin  in  words !  What  did  you  send  Mother 
Ettienne  away  for?" 

"  That  I  might  talk  to  you  alone.  Why  do  you  deny  me 
that  small  consolation,  Lina?  How  have  I  offended,  that  j  >u 
should  treat  me  so  ?" 

"  In  no  way  at  all  have  you  offended,  dearest  Cloudy — 
St.  Peter!  there  it  is  again — T  mean  only  Cloudy." 

"  Never  mind  explaining  the  distinction.     You  are  going  to 


MARIAN.  611 

be  a  nun,  you  say  !  Yery  well — let  that  pass,  too !  But  you 
must  leave  your  convent,  and  go  into  the  world  yet  once  more, 
und  then  I  shall  have  opportunities  of  talking  to  you  before 
your  return." 

"  No,  no ;  never  will  I  leave  my  convent — never  will  I  sub- 
ject my  soul  to  such  a  temptation." 

"  My  dear  Lina,  I  have  the  cabalistic  words  that  must  draw 
you  forth — listen !  Our  cousin,  Thurston  Willcoxen,  is  in  pri- 
son, charged  with  the  murder  of  Marian  Mayfield" — a  stifled 
shriek  from  Jacquelina — "  and  there  is  circumstantial  evidence 
against  him  strong  enough  to  ruin  him  forever,  if  it  does  not 
cost  him  his  life.  Now,  Lina,  I  cannot  be  wrong  in  supposing 
that  you  know  who  struck  that  death-blow,  and  that  your 
evidence  can  thoroughly  exonerate  Thurston  from  suspicion  1 
Am  I  right  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  you  are  right,"  exclaimed  Jacqueliua,  in  great 
agitation. 

"  You  will  go,  then  ?" 

"Yes!  yes." 

"  When  ?" 

"  In  an  hour — this  moment — with  you." 

"  With  me  ?" 

"  Yes  1  1  may  do  so  in  such  a  case.  I  must  do  so  !  Oh  ! 
Heaven  knows,  I  have  occasioned  sin  enough,  without  causing 
more  against  poor  Thurston  1" 

"  You  will  get  ready  then  immediately,  dear  Lina.  Are  you 
sure  there  will  be  no  opposition  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Why,  Cloudy,  are  you  one  of  those  who 
credit  '  raw  head  and  bloody  bones'  fables  about  convents  ?  1 
have  no  jailor  but  my  own  conscience,  Cloudy.  Besides,  my 
year's  vows  expired  yesterday,  and  I  am  free  for  awhile,  before 
renewing  them  perpetually,"  said  Jacquelina,  hurrying  away  to 
get  ready. 

"  And  may  I  be  swung  to  the  yard-arm  if  ever  I  let  you 
renew  them,"  said  Cloudy,  while  he  waited  for  her. 

Jacquelina  was  soon  ready — and  Cloudy  rejoined  her  in  the 


*• 

f'12  THE      MISSING      BRIDE 

front  entry — behind  the  grating  of  which  the  good  old  portress, 
as  she  watched  the  handsome  middy  drive  off  with  her  young 
postulant,  devoutly  crossed  herself,  and  diligently  told  her 
beads 


Commodore  Waugh  and  his  family  were  returning  slowly 
from  the  South,  stopping  at  all  the  principal  towns  for  long 
rests  on  their  way  homeward. 

The  Commodore  was  now  a  wretched,  helpless  old  man, 
depending  almost  for  his  daily  life,  upon  the  care  and  tender- 
ness of  Mrs.  Waugh. 

Good  Henrietta,  with  advancing  years,  had  continued  to 
"  wax  fat,"  and  now  it  was  about  as  much  as  she  could  do,  with 
many  grunts,  to  get  up  and  down  stairs.  Since  her  double 
bereavement  of  her  "  Hebe"  and  her  "  Lapwing,"  her  kind, 
motherly  countenance  had  lost  somewhat  of  its  comfortable  jol- 
lity, and  her  hearty  mellow  laugh  was  seldom  heard.  Still  good 
Henrietta  was  passably  happy,  as  the  world  goes,  for  she  had 
the  lucky  foundation  of  a  happy  temper  and  temperament — she 
enjoyed  the  world,  her  friends  and  her  creature  comforts — her 
sound,  innocent  sleep — her  ambling  pony,  or  her  easy  carriage 
— her  hearty  meals  and  her  dreamy  doze  in  the  soft  arm-chair 
of  an  afternoon,  while  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  droned,  in  a  dreary  voice, 
long  homilies  for  the  good  of  the  Commodore's  soul. 

Mrs.  L'Oiseau  had  got  to  be  one  of  the  saddest  and  maddest 
fanatics  that  ever  afflicted  a  family.  And  there  were  hours 
when,  by  holding  up  too  graphic,  terrific,  and  exasperating 
pictures  of  the  veteran's  past  and  present  wickedness  and  im- 
penitence, and  his  future  retribution,  in  the  shape  of  an  exter- 
nal roasting  in  the  lake  that  bnrneth  with  fire  and  brimstone — 
she  drove  the  old  man  half  frantic  with  rage  and  fright!  And 
then  she  would  nearly  finish  him  by  asking — If  hell  was  so  hor- 
rible to  hear  of  for  a  little  while,  what  must  it  be  to  feel 
forever  and  ever  ? 

They  had  reached  Charleston,  on  their  way  home.  Mrs 
L'Oiseau,  too  much  fatigued  to  persecute  her  uncle  for  his 
good,  had  gone  to  her  chamber. 


M  A  R  I  A  N  613 

Tlie  Commodore  was  put,  comfortably  to  bed. 

And  Mrs.  Wangh  took  the  day's  paper,  and  sat  down  by  the 
old  man's  side,  to  read  him  the  news  until  he  should  get 
sleepy.  As  she  turned  the  paper  about,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
same  paragraph  that  had  so  agitated  Marian.  Now,  Henrietta 
was  by  no  means  excitable — on  the  contrary,  she  was  rather 
hard  to  be  moved;  but  on  seeing  this  announcement  of  the 
arrest  of  Mr.  Willcoxen,  for  the  crime  with  which  he  was 
charged,  an  exclamation  of  horror  and  amazement  burst  from 
her  lips.  In  another  moment  she  had  controlled  herself,  and 
would  gladly  have  kept  the  exciting  news  from  the  sick  man 
until  the  morning. 

But  it  was  too  late — the  Commodore  had  heard  the  un- 
wonted cry,  and  now,  raised  upon  his  elbow,  lay  staring  at  her 
with  his  great  fat  eyes,  and  insisting  upon  knowing — What  the 
foul  fiend  she  meant  by  screeching  out  in  that  manner? 

It  was  in  vain  to  evade  the  question — the  Commodore  would 
ht-ar  the  news.  And  Mrs.  Waugh  told  him. 

"And  by  the  bones  of  Paul  Jones,  I  always  believed  it!1' 
falsely  swore  the  Commodore ;  and  thereupon  he  demanded  to 
hear  "  all  about  it." 

Mrs.  Waugh  commenced,  and  in  a  very  unsteady  voice  read 
the  long  account  quite  through.  The  Commodore  made  no 
comment,  except  an  occasional  grunt  of  satisfaction,  until  she 
had  finished  it,  when  he  growled  out, 

"Knew  it! — hope  they'll  hang  him! — d — d  rascal!  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  him,  there'd  been  no  trouble  in  the  family  !  now 
call  Festus  to  help  to  turn  me  over,  and  tuck  me  up,  Hen- 
rietta; I  want  to  go  to  sleep  1" 

That  night  Mrs.  Waugh  said  nothing,  but  the  next  morning 
she  proposed  hurrying  homeward  with  all  possible  speed. 

But  the  Commodore  would  hear  of  no  such  thing.  He 
swore  roundly  that  he  would  not  stir  to  save  the  necks  of  all 
the  scoundrels  in  the  world,  much  less  that  of  Thurston,  who, 
if  he  did  not  kill  Marian,  deserved  richly  to  be  hanged  for 
giving  poor  Nace  so  much  trouble. 


614  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

Mrs.  Waugh  coaxed  and  argued  iu  vain.  The  Cornraodoie 
rather  liked  to  hear  her  do  so,  and  so  the  longer  she  pleaded, 
the  more  obstinate  and  dogged  he  grew,  until  at  last  Henrietta 
desisted — telling  him,  Yery  well ! — justice  and  humanity  alike 
required  her  presence  near  the  unhappy  man,  and  so,  whether 
the  Commodore  chose  to  budge  or  not,  she  should  surely  leave 
Charleston  in  that  very  evening's  boat  for  Baltimore,  so  as  to 
reach  Leonardtown  in  time  for  the  trial.  Upon  hearing  this, 
the  Commodore  swore  furiously;  but  knowing  of  old  that 
nothing  could  turn  Henrietta  from  the  path  of  duty,  and 
dreading  above  all  things  to  lose  her  comfortable  attentions, 
and  be  left  to  the  doubtful  mercies  of  Mary  L'Oiseau,  he 
yielded,  though  with  the  worst  possible  grace,  swearing  all  the 
time  that  he  hoped  the  villain  would  swing  for  it  yet. 

And  then  the  trunks  were  packed,  and  the  travellers  re- 
sumed their  homeward  journey. 


CHAPTER   XLY. 

THE    TRIAL. 

"  Through  night  to  day ! 
When  sullen  darkness  lowers, 
And  heaven  and  earth  are  hid  from  sight, 

Choer  up !  cheer  up ! 
Erelong  the  opening  flowers, 
With  dewy  eyes,  shall  shine  in  light, 

Through  storm  to  calm! 
When  over  land  and  ocean 
Roll  the  loud  chariots  of  the  wind, 

Cheer  up!  Cheer  up! 
The  voice  of  wild  commotion 
Proclaims  trauquility  at  hand." — Montgomery. 

THE  day  of  the  trial  came.  It  was  a  bright  spring  day,  and 
from  an  early  hour  in  the  morning  the  village  was  crowded  to 
overflowing  with  people  collected  from  all  parts  of  the  county. 


THE      TRIAL.  615 

The  court-room  was  'filled  to  suffocation.  It  was  with  the 
.-rivatest  difficulty  that  order  could  be  maintained  when  the 
prisoner,  iii  the  custody  of  the  high  sheriff,  was  brought  into 
court. 

The  venerable  presiding  judge  was  supposed  to  be  unfriendly 
to  the  accused,  and  the  state's  attorney  was  known  to  be  per- 
sonally, as  well  as  officially,  hostile  to  his  interests.  So  strongly 
were  the  minds  of  the  people  prejudiced,  upon  one  side  or  the- 
other,  that  it  was  with  much  trouble  twelve  men  could  be  found 
who  had  not  made  up  their  opinions  as  to  the  prisoner's  inno- 
cence or  guilt.  At  length,  however,  a  jury  was  empaneled, 
and  the  trial  commenced.  When  the  prisoner  was  placed  at 
the  bar,  and  asked  the  usual  question,  "  Guilty  or  Xot  Guilty  ?" 
some  of  the  old  haughtiness  curled  the  lip  and  flashed  from  the 
eye  of  Thurston  Willcoxen,  as  though  he  disdained  to  answer  a 
charge  so  base  ;  and  he  replied  in  a  low,  scornful  tone, 

"Xot  Guilty,  your  honor." 

The  opening  charge  of  the  state's  attorney  had  been  carefully 
prepared.  Mr.  Thomson  had  never  in  his  life  had  so  important 
a  case  upon  his  hands,  and  he  was  resolved  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  His  speech  was  well  reasoned,  logical,  eloquent.  To 
destroy  in  the  minds  of  the  jury  every  favorable  impression  left 
by  the  late  blameless  and  beneficent  life  of  Mr.  Willcoxen,  he 
did  not  fail  to  adduce,  from  olden  history,  and  from  later  times, 
every  signal  instance  of  depravity,  cloaked  with  hypocrisy,  in 
high  places ;  he  enlarged  upon  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing — 
Satan  in  an  angel's  garb,  and  dolefully  pointed  out  how  many 
times  the  indignant  question  of — "  Is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he 
should  do  this  thing  ?" — had  been  answered  by  results  in  the 
affirmative.  He  raked  up  David's  sin  from  the  ashes  of  ages. 
Where  was  the  scene  of  that  crime,  and  who  was  its  perpetrator 
— in  the  court  of  Israel,  by  the  King  of  Israel — a  man  after 
G^d's  own  heart.  Could  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  be  sur- 
prised at  the  appalling  discovery  so  recently  made,  as  if  great 
crimes  in  high  places  were  impossible  or  new  things  under  the 
sun  ?  He  did  not  fail  to  draw  a  touching  picture  of  the  victim ; 


f516  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

the  beautiful  young  stranger-girl,  whom  they  all  remembered 
and  Icved — who  had  come,  an  angel  of  mercy,  on  a  mission  of 
mercy,  to  their  shores.  Was  not  her  beauty,  her  genius,  her 
goodness,  by  which  all  there  had  at  some  time  been  blessed — 
sufficient  to  save  her  from  the  knife  of  the  assassin  ? — No  !  as 
he  should  shortly  prove.  Yet  all  these  years  her  innocent  blood 
had  cried  to  Heaven  in  vain ;  her  fate  was  unavenged,  her 
man  PS  nnappeased. 

All  the  women,  and  all  the  simple-hearted  and  unworldly 
among  the  men,  were  melted  into  tears,  very  unpropitious  to  the 
fate  of  Thurston  ;  tears  not  called  up  by  the  eloquence  of  the 
prosecuting  attorney,  so  much  as  by  the  mere  allusion  to  the 
fate  of  Marian,  once  so  beloved,  and  still  so  fresh  in  the  memo- 
ries of  all. 

Thurston  heard  all  this — not  in  the  second-hand  style  with 
which  I  have  summed  it  up — but  in  the  first  vital  freshness, 
when  it  was  spoken  with  a  logic,  force,  and  fire,  that  carried 
conviction  to  many  a  mind.  Thurston  looked  upon  the  judge 
— his  face  was  stern  and  grave.  He  looked  upon  the  jury — 
they  were  all  strangers,  from  distant  parts  of  the  county,  drawn 
by  idle  curiosity  to  the  scene  of  trial,  and  arriving  quite  unpre- 
judiced. They  were  not  his  "  peers,"  but,  on  the  contrary, 
twelve  as  stolid-looking  brothers  as  ever  decided  the  fate  of  a 
gentleman  and  scholar.  Thence  he  cast  his  eyes  over  the  crowd 
in  the  court-room. 

There  were  his  parishioners  !  hoary  patriarchs  and  gray-haired 
matrons,  stately  men  and  lovely  women,  who,  from  week  to 
week,  for  many  years,  had  still  hung  delighted  on  his  discourses, 
as  though  his  lips  had  been  touched  with  fire,  and  all  his  words 
inspired  !  There  they  were  around  him  again  !  But  oh  !  how 
different  the  relations  and  the  circumstances  !  There  they  sat, 
with  stern  brows  and  averted  faces,  or  downcast  eyes,  and 
"  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  forbore."  Xo  eye  or  lip  among 
them  responded  kindly  to  his  searching  gaze — and  Thurston 
turned  his  face  away  again — for  an  instant  his  soul  sank  under 
:he  pall  of  despair  that  fell  darkening  upon  it.  It  was  not  con- 


THE      TRIAL.  617 

viction  in  the  court  he  thought  of — he  would  probably  be  ac- 
quitted by  the  court — but  what  should  acquit  him  in  public 
opinion  ?  The  evidence  that  might  not  be  strong  enough  to 
doom  him  to  death,  would  still  be  sufficient  to  destroy  forever 
his  position  and  his  usefulness.  No  eye  thenceforth  would  meet 
bis  own  in  friendly  confidence.  No  hand  grasp  his  in  brotherly 
fellowship. 

The  state's  attorney  was  still  proceeding  with  his  speech. 
He  was  now  stating  the  case,  which  he  promised  to  prove  by 
competent  witnesses — how  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  had  long 
pursued  his  beautiful  but  hapless  victim — how  he  had  been 
united  to  her  by  a  private  marriage — that  he  had  corresponded 
•with  her  from  Europe — that  upon  his  return  they  had  frequently 
met — that  the  prisoner,  with  the  treachery  that  would  soon  be 
proved  to  be  a  part  of  his  nature,  bad  grown  weary  of  his  wife, 
and  transferred  his  attentions  to  another  and  more  fortune- 
favored  lady — and  finally,  that  upon  the  evening  of  the  murder 
he  had  decoyed  the  unhappy  young  lady  to  the  fatal  spot,  and 
then  and  there  effected  his  purpose.  The  prosecuting  attorney 
made  this  statement,  not  with  the  brevity  with  which  it  is  here 
reported,  but  with  a  minuteness  of  detail  and  warmth  of  coloring 
that  harrowed  up  the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  "it.  He  finished 
by  saying  that  he  should  call  the  witnesses  in  the  order  of  time 
corresponding  with  the  facts  they  came  to  prove. 

"  Oliver  Murray  will  take  the  stand." 

This,  the  first  witness  called,  after  the  usual  oath,  deposed 
that  he  had  first  seen  the  prisoner  and  the  deceased  together  in 
the  Library  of  Congress ;  had  overheard  their  conversation,  and 
suspecting  some  unfairness  on  the  part  of  the  prisoner,  had 
followed  the  parties  to  the  navy-yard,  where  he  had  witnessed 
their  marriage  ceremony. 

"When  was  the  next  occasion  upon  which  you  saw  the 
prisoner?" 

"  On  the  night  of  the  8th  of  April,  182-,  on  the  coast,  near 
Pine  Bluff.  I  had  landed  from  a  boat,  and  was  going  inland 
when  I  passed  him.  I  did  not  see  his  face  distinctly,  but  recog- 
51* 


(518  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

nized  him  by  his  size  and  form,  and  peculiar  air  and  gait.  He 
•was  hurrying  away,  with  every  mark  of  terror  and  agitation." 

This  portion  of  Mr.  Murray's  testimony  was  so  new  to  all, 
as  to  excite  the  greatest  degree  of  surprise,  and  in  no  bosom 
did  it  arouse  more  astonishment  than  in  that  of  Thurston.  The 
witness  was  strictly  cross-questioned  by  the  counsel  for  the 
prisoner,  but  the  cross-examination  failed  to  weaken  his  testi- 
mony, or  to  elicit  anything  more  favorable  to  the  accused. 
Oliver  Murray  was  then  directed  to  stand  aside. 

The  next  witness  was  Miriam  Shields.  Deeply  veiled  and 
half  fainting,  the  poor  girl  was  led  in  between  Colonel  and  Miss 
Thornton,  and  allowed  to  sit  while  giving  evidence.  When 
told  to  look  at  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  she  raised  her  death- 
like face,  and  a  deep,  gasping  sob  broke  from  her  bosom.  Bui 
Thurston  fixed  his  eyes  kindly  and  encouragingly  upon  her — 
his  look  said  plainly — "  Fear  nothing,  dear  Miriam  !  Be  cou- 
rageous !  do  your  stern  duty,  and  trust  in  God." 

Miriam  then  identified  the  prisoner  as  the  man  she  had  twice 
seen  alone  with  Marian  at  night.  She  farther  testified,  that 
upon  the  night  of  April  8th,  182-,  Marian  had  left  home  late 
in  the  evening  to  keep  an  appointment — from  which  she  had 
never  returned.  That  in  the  pocket  of  the  dress  she  had  laid 
off,  was  found  the  note  appointing  the  meeting  upon  the  beach 
fur  the  night  in  question.  Here  the  note  was  produced 
Miriam  identified  the  handwriting  as  that  of  Mr.  Willcoxeu. 

Paul  Douglass  was  next  called  to  the  stand,  and  required  to 
give  his  testimony  in  regard  to  the  handwriting.  Paul  looked 
at  the  piece  of  paper  that  was  placed  before  him,  and  he  was 
sorely  tempted.  How  could  he  swear  to  the  handwriting  unless 
he  had  actually  seen  the  hand  write  it?  he  asked  himself.  He 
looked  at  his  brother.  But  Thurston  saw  the  struggle  in  his 
mind,  and  his  countenance  was  stern  and  high,  and  his  look 
authoritative  and  commanding — it  said — "Paul!  do  not  dare 
to  deceive  yourself.  You  know  the  handwriting.  Speak  the 
truth  if  it  kill  me."  And  Paul  did  so. 

The  next  witness  that  took  the  stand  was  Dr.  Brightwell— 


THE      TRIAL.  619 

the  good  old  physician  gave  his  evidence  very  reluctantly — it 
went  to  prove  the  fact  of  the  prisoner's  absence  from  the  death- 
bed of  his  grandfather  upon  the  night  of  the  reputed  murder, 
and  his  distracted  appearance  when  returning  late  in  the 
morning. 

"  Why  do  you  say  reputed  murder  ?" 

"  Because,  sir,  I  never  consider  the  fact  of  a  murder  estab- 
lished, until  the  body  of  the  victim  has  been  found." 

"You  may  stand  down." 

Dr.  Solomon  Weismann  was  next  called  to  the  stand,  and 
corroborated  the  testimony  of  the  last  witness. 

Several  other  witnesses  were  then  called  in  succession,  whose 
testimony  being  only  corroborative,  was  not  very  important 
And  the  prisoner  was  remanded,  and  the  court  adjourned  until 
ten  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

"  Life  will  be  saved,  but  position  and  usefulness  in  this 
neighborhood  gone  forever,  Paul,"  said  Thurston,  as  they 
went  out. 

"Evidence  very  strong — very  conclusive  to  our  minds,  yet 
not  sufficient  to  convict  him,"  said  one  gentleman  to  another. 

"  I  am  of  honest  Dr.  Brightwell's  opinion — that  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  murder  needs  as  a  starting  point  the  finding  of 
the  body ;  and  moreover,  that  the  conviction  of  a  murderer 
requires  an  eye-witness  to  the  deed.  The  evidence,  so  far  as 
we  have  heard  it,  is  strong  enough  to  ruin  the  man,  but  not 
strong  enough  to  hang  him,"  said  a  third. 

"  Aye !  but  we  have  not  heard  all,  or  the  most  important 
part  of  the  testimony.  The  state's  attorney  has  not  fired  his 
great  gun  yet,"  said  a  fourth,  as  the  crowd  elbowed,  pushed, 
and  struggled  out  of  the  court-room. 

Those  from  distant  parts  of  the  county  remained  in  the  vil- 
lage all  night — those  nearer  returned  home  to  come  back  in  tho 
morning. 

The  second  day  of  the  trial,  the  village  was  'nore  crowded 
than  before.  At  ten  o'clock  the  court  opened,  the  prisoner 
was  shortly  afterwards  brought  in,  and  the  prosecution  renewed 


620  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

its  examination  of  witnesses.  The  next  witness  that  took  the 
stand  was  a  most  important  one.  John  Miles,  captain  of  the 
schooner  Plover.  He  deposed  that  in  the  month  of  April,  182-, 
lie  was  mate  in  the  schooner  Blanch,  of  which  his  father  was 
the  captain.  That  in  said  month  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  had 
hired  his  father's  vessel  to  carry  off  a  lady  whom  the  prisoner 
declared  tc  be  his  own  wife ;  that  they  were  to  take  her  to  the 
Bermudas.  That  to  effect  their  object,  his  father  and  himself 
had  landed  near  Pine  Bluff;  the  night  was  dark,  yet  he  soon 
discerned  the  lady  walking  alone  upon  the  beach.  They  were 
bound  to  wait  for  the  arrival  of  the  prisoner,  and  a  signal  from 
him,  before  approaching  the  lady.  They  waited  some  time, 
watching  from  their  cover  the  lady  as  she  paced  impatiently  up 
and  down  the  sands.  At  length  they  saw  the  prisoner  ap- 
proaching. He  was  closely  wrapped  up  in  his  cloak,  and  his 
hat  was  pulled  over  his  eyes,  but  they  recognized  him  well  by 
his  air  and  gait.  They  drew  nearer  still,  keeping  in  the  shadow, 
waiting  for  the  signal.  The  lady  and  the  prisoner  met — a  few 
words  passed  between  them — of  which  he,  the  deponent,  only 
heard  "  Thurston  ?"  "Yes,  Thurston  /"  and  then  the  prisoner- 
raised  his  arm  and  struck,  and  the  lady  fell.  His  father  was  a 
cautious  man,  and  when  he  saw  the  prisoner  rush  up  the  cliff 
and  disappear,  that  the  lady  was  dead,  and  that  the  storm  was 
beginning  to  rage  violently  and  the  tide  was  coming  in,  and 
fearing,  besides,  that  he  should  get  into  trouble,  he  hurried 
into  the  boat  and  put  off  and  boarded  the  schooner,  and  as  soon 
as  possible  set  sail  for  Bermuda.  They  had  kept  away  from 
this  coast  for  years,  that  is  to  say,  as  long  as  the  father  lived. 

John  Miles  was  cross-examined  by  Mr.  Ilomford,  but  without 
effect. 

Tl.is  testimony  bore  fatally  upon  the  prisoner's  cause — the 
silence  of  consternation  reigned  through  the  crowd. 

Thurston  Willcoxen,  when  he  heard  this  astounding  evidence, 
first  thought  that  the  witness  was  perjured,  but  when  he  looked 
closely  upon  his  open,  honest  face,  and  fearless  eye  and  free 
bearing,  he  saw  that  no  consciousness  of  falsehood  was  There 


THE      TRIAL.  621 

and  he  could  but  grant  that  the  witness,  naturally  deceived  by 
"  foregone  conclusions,"  had  inevitably  mistaken  the  real  mur- 
derer for  himself. 

Darker  and  darker  lowered  the  pall  of  fate  over  him — the 
nwful  stillness  of  the  court  was  oppressive,  was  suffocating; 
B  deathly  faiutness  came  upon  him,  for  now,  for  the  first  time, 
he  fully  realized  the  awful  doom  that  threatened  him.  Not  long 
his  nature  bowed  under  the  burden — his  spirit  rose  to  throw  ic 
off,  and  once  more  the  fine  head  was  proudly  raised,  nor  did  it 
once  sink  again.  The  last  witness  for  the  prosecution  was  now 
called  and  took  the  stand,  and  deposed  that  he  lived  ten  miles 
down  the  coast  in  an  isolated,  obscure  place  ;  that  on  the  first 
of  May,  182-,  the  body  of  a  woman  had  been  found  at  low 
tide  upon  the  beach,  that  it  had  the  appearance  of  having  been 
very  long  in  the  water — the  clothing  was  respectable,  the  dress 
was  dark  blue  stuff,  but  was  faded  in  spots — there  was  a  ring  on 
the  finger,  but  the  hand  was  so  swollen  that  it  could  not  be  got 
off.  His  poor  neighbors  of  the  coast  assembled.  They  made 
an  effort  to  get  the  coroner,  but  he  could  not  be  found.  And 
the  state  of  the  body  demanded  immediate  burial.  When  cross- 
questioned  by  Lawyer  Ilomford,  the  witness  said  that  they  had 
not  then  heard  of  any  missing  or  murdered  lady,  but  had  be- 
lieved the  body  to  be  that  of  a  shipwrecked  passenger,  until 
they  heard  of  Miss  Mayfield's  fate. 

Miriam  was  next  recalled.  She  came  in  as  before,  supported 
between  Colonel  and  Miss  Thornton.  Every  one  who  saw  the 
poor  girl,  said  that  she  was  dying.  When  examined,  she  de- 
posed that  Marian,  when  she  left  home,  had  worn  a  blue  raerii.o 
dress — and  yes,  she  always  wore  a  little  locket  ring  on  her 
finger.  Drooping  and  fainting  as  she  was,  Miriam  was  allowed 
to  leave  the  court-room.  This  closed  the  evidence  of  the  pro- 
secution. 

The  defence  was  taken  up  and  conducted  with  a  great  deal 

of  skill.     Mr.  Ilomford  enlarged  upon  the  noble  character  his 

client  had  ever  maintained  from  childhood  to  the  present  time — 

they  all  knew  him — he  had  been  born  and  had  ever  lived  among 

39 


622  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

then? — what  man  or  woman  of  them  all  would  have  dared  to 
suspect  him  of  such  a  crime?  he  spoke  warmly  of  his  truth, 
fidelity,  Christian  zeal,  benevolence,  philanthropy  and  great 
public  benefits. 

I  have  no  space  nor  time  to  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  logic  and 
eloquence  with  which  Mr.  Romford  met  the  charges  of  the 
state's  attorney,  nor  the  astute  skill  with  which  he  tried  to 
break  down  the  force  of  the  evidence  for  the  prosecution. 
Then  he  called  the  witnesses  for  the  defence.  They  were  all 
warm  friends  of  Mr.  Willcoxen,  all  had  known  him  from  boy- 
nood,  none  would  believe  that  under  any  possible  circumstances 
he  could  commit  the  crime  for  which  he  stood  indicted.  They 
testified  to  his  well-known  kindness,  gentleness  and  benevolence 
— his  habitual  forbearance  and  command  of  temper,  even  under 
the  most  exasperating  provocations — they  swore  to  his  gene- 
rosity, fidelity  and  truthfulness  in  all  the  relations  of  life.  In  a 
word,  they  did  the  very  best  they  could  to  save  his  life  and 
honor — but  the  most  they  could  do  was  very  little  before  the 
force  of  such  evidence  as  stood  arrayed  against  him.  And  all 
men  saw,  that  unless  an  alibi  could  be  proved,  Thurston  Will- 
coxen was  lost!  Oh  !  for  that  alibi.  Paul  Douglass  was  again 
undergoing  an  awful  temptation.  Why,  he  asked  himself — 
why  should  he  not  perjure  his  soul,  and  lose  it,  too,  to  save  his 
brother's  life  and  honor  from  fatal  wrong  ?  And  if  there  had 
not  been  in  Paul's  heart  a  love  of  truth  greater  than  his  fear  of 
hell,  his  affection  for  Thurston  would  have  triumphed,  he  would 
have  perjured  himself. 

The  defence  here  closed.  The  state's  attorney  did  not  even 
deem  it  necessary  to  speak  again,  and  the  judge  proceeded  tc 
charge  the  jury.  They  must  not,  he  said,  be  blinded  by  the 
social  position,  clerical  character,  youth,  talents,  accomplish- 
ments or  celebrity  of  the  prisoner — with  however  dazzling  a 
nalo  these  might  surround  him.  They  must  deliberate  coolly 
upon  the  evidence  that  had  been  laid  before  them,  and  after  due 
consideration  of  the  case,  if  there  was  a  doubt  upon  their 
minds,  they  were  to  let  the  prisoner  have  the  full  benefit  of  it. 


THE      TRIAL.  623 

Wherever  there  was  the  least  uncertainty  't  was  right  to  lean 
to  the  side  of  mercy. 

The  case  was  then  given  to  the  jury.  Tue  jury  did  not  leave 
their  box,  but  counseled  together  in  a  low  voice  for  half-an- 
hour,  during  which  a  death-like  silence,  a  suffocating  atmo- 
sphere filled  the  court-room. 

Thurston  alone  was  calm,  his  soul  had  collected  all  its  forces 
to  meet  the  shock  of  whatever  fate  might  come — honor  or  dis- 
honor, life  or  death ! 

Presently  the  foreman  of  the  jury  arose,  followed  by  the 
others. 

Every  heart  stood  still. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed  upon  your  ver- 
dict ?"  demanded  the  judge. 

"  Yes,  your  honor,"  responded  the  foreman,  on  the  part  of 
his  colleagues. 

"  How  say  you — is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  '  Guilty  or  Not 
Guilty  ?'  " 

"  NOT  GUILTY,"  cried  the  shrill  tones  of  a  girl,  near  the  outer 
door,  towards  which  all  eyes,  in  astonishment  and  inquiry,  were 
now  turned,  to  see  a  slight  female  figure,  in  the  garb  of  a  Sister 
of  Mercy,  clinging  to  the  arm  of  Cloudesley  Mornington,  and 
who  was  now  pushing  and  elbowing  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
towards  the  bench. 

All  gave  way — many  that  were  seated  arose  to  their  feet,  and 
spoke  in  eager  whispers,  or  looked  over  each  others'  heads. 

"  Order  1  silence  in  the  court!"  shouted  the  marshal. 

"  Your  honor — this  lady  is  a  vitally  important  witness  for 
the  defence,"  said  Cloudy,  pushing  his  way  into  the  presence  of 
the  judge,  leaving  his  female  companion  standing  before  the 
bench,  and  then  hurrying  to  the  dock,  where  he  grasped  the 
hand  of  the  prisoner,  exclaiming,  breathlessly,  "  Saved — Thurs- 
ton !  Saved !" 

"  Order  1  silence  !"  called  out  the  marshal,  by  way  of  making 
himself  agreeable — for  there  was  silence  in  the  court,  where  ah 
the  audience  at  least  were  more  anxious  to  hear  than  to  speak. 


G24  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

"  Your  honor,  I  move  that  the  new  witness  be  heard,"  said 
Mr.  Ilomford. 

"  The  defence  is  closed — the  charge  given  to  the  jury,  who 
have  decided  upon  their  verdict,"  answered  the  state's  attorney. 

"  The  verdict  has  not  been  rendered,  the  jury  have  the  pri- 
vilege of  hearing  this  new  witness,"  said  the  judge. 

The  jury  were  unanimous  in  the  resolution  to  withhold  their 
verdict  until  they  had  heard. 

This  being  decided,  the  Sister  of  Mercy  took  the  stand, 
threw  a-side  her  long,  black  veil,  and  revealed  the  features  of 
Jacquelina;  but  so  pale,  weary,  anxious  and  terrified,  as  to  be 
scarcely  recognizable. 

The  usual  oath  was  administered. 

And  while  Cloudy  stood  triumphantly  by  the  side  of  Mr. 
^Villcoxen,  Jacquelina  prepared  to  give  in  her  evidence. 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  slight  disturbance  near  the  door, 
and  the  rather  noisy  entrance  of  several  persons,  whom  the 
crowd,  on  beholding,  recognized  as  Commodore  \Vaugh,  his 
wife,  his  niece,  and  his  servant.  Some  among  them  seemed  to 
insist  upon  being  brought  directly  into  the  presence  of  the 
judge  and  jury — but  the  officer  near  the  door  pointed  out  to 
them  the  witness  on  the  stand,  waiting  to  give  testimony  ;  aud 
on  seeing  her  they  subsided  into  quietness,  and  suffered  them- 
selves to  be  set  aside  for  a  while. 

When  this  was  over — a  lady,  plainly  dressed,  and  close-veiled, 
entered,  and  addressed  a  few  words  to  the  same  janitor.  But  the 
latter  replied  as  he  had  to  the  others,  by  pointing  to  the  witness 
on  the  stand.  The  veiled  lady  seemed  to  acquiesce,  and  sat 
down  where  the  officer  directed  her. 

"  Order!  silence  in  the  court!"  cried  the  marshal,  not  to  be 
behindhand. 

And  order  and  silence  reigned  when  the  Sister  gave  in  her 
evidence  as  follows : 

"  My  name  is  Jacquelina  L'Oiscau — not  Grimshaw — for  I 
never  was  the  wife  of  Dr.  Grimshaw.  I  do  not  like  to  speak 
farther  of  myself,  yet  it  is  necessary,  to  make  my  testimony 


THE      TRIAL.  62f> 

Mcar  While  vet  a  child  I  was  contracted  to  Dr.  Grimshaw  in 
a  civil  marriage,  which  was  never  ratified  I  was  full  of  mischief 
in  those  days,  and  my  greatest  pleasure  was  to  torment,  and  pro- 
voke my  would-be  bridegroom ;  alas !  alas !  it  was  to  that  wanton 
spirit  that  all  the  disaster  is  owing.  Thurston  Willcoxeu  and 
Marian  May  field  were  my  intimate  friends.  On  the  morning 
of  the  8th  of  April,  182-,  they  were  both  at  Luckenough. 
Thurston  left  early.  After  he  was  gone,  Marian  chanced  to 
drop  a  note,  which  I  picked  up  and  read.  It  was  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Thurston  Willcoxen,  and  it  appointed  a  meeting 
with  Marian  upon  the  beach,  near  Pine  Bluff,  for  that  evening. 

Here  Mr.  lloniford  placed  in  her  hands  the  scrap  of  paper 
that  had  already  formed  such  an  important  part  of  the  evidence 
against  the  prisoner. 

"  Is  that  the  note  of  which  you  speak  ?" 

"  Yes — that  is  the  note.  And  when  I  picked  it  up  the  wan- 
+0n  spirit  of  mischief  inspired  me  with  the  wish  to  use  it  for 
the  torment  of  Dr.  Grimshaw,  who  was  easily  provoked  to 
jealousy  !  Oh  !  I  never  thought  it  would  end  so  fatally  !  I 
affected  to  lose  the  note,  and  left  it  in  his  way.  I  saw  him  pick 
it  up  and  read  it.  I  felt  sure  he  thought — as  I  intended  he  should 
think — it  was  for  me.  There  were  other  circumstances  also  to 
lead  him  to  the  same  conclusion.  He  dropped  the  note  where  he 
had  picked  it  up,  and  pretended  not  to  have  seen  it;  afterwards 
/  in  the  same  way  restored  it  to  Marian.  To  carry  on  my 
fatal  jest,  I  went  home  in  the  carriage  with  Marian,  to  Old 
Field  Cottage,  which  stands  near  the  coast.  I  left  Marian  there 
and  set  out  to  return  for  Luckenough — laughing  all  the  time, 
alas  !  to  think  that  Doctor  Grimshaw  had  gone  to  the  coast  to 
intercept  what  he  supposed  to  be  my  meeting  with  Thurstcn  1 
Oli,  God  I  never  thought  «uch  jests  could  be  so  dangerous  I 
Alas  !  alas  I  he  met  Marian  MayGeld  in  the  dark,  and  between 
the  storm  without  and  the  storm  within — the  blindness  of  nig!  t 
and  the  blindness  of  rage1 — he  stabbed  her  before  he  found  out 
his  mistake,  and  he  rushed  home  with  her  innocent  blood  on 
bis  hands  and  clothing — rushed  hmie  and  into  my  presence,  to 


626  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

-eproach  me  as  the  cause  of  his  crime,  to  fill  my  bosom  with 
undying  remorse,  and  then  to  die  !  lie  had  in  the  crisis  of  his 
passion,  ruptured  an  artery  and  fell — so  that  the  blood  found 
upon  his  hands  and  clothing  was  supposed  to  be  his  own.  2so 
one  knew  the  secret  of  his  blood  guiltiness  but  myself.  In  my 
illness  and  delirium  that  followed,  I  believe  I  dropped  some 
words  that  made  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Waugh,  and  Mr.  Cloudlesley 
Mornington,  suspect  something ;  but  I  never  betrayed  my 
knowledge  of  the  dead  man's  unintentional  crime,  and  would 
not  do  so  now,  but  so  save  the  innocent.  May  I  now  sit 
down  ?" 

No  !  the  state's  attorney  wanted  to  take  her  in  hand,  and 
cross-examine  her,  which  he  began  to  do  severely,  unsparingly. 
But  as  she  had  told  the  exact  truth,  though  not  in  the  clearest 
style,  the  more  the  lawyer  sifted  her  testimony,  the  clearer  and 
more  evident  its  truthfulness  and  point  became ;  until  there 
seemed  at  length  nothing  to  do  but  acquit  the  prisoner.  But 
courts  of  law  are  proverbially  fussy,  and  now  the  state's  attor- 
ney was  doing  his  best  to  invalidate  the  testimony  of  the  last 
witness. 

Turn  we  from  them  to  the  veiled  lady,  where  she  sat  in  her 
obscure  corner  of  the  room,  hearing  all  this. 

Oh  !  who  can  conceive,  far  less  portray  the  joy,  the  unspeak- 
able joy  that  filled  her  heart  nearly  to  breaking !  He  was 
guiltless !  Tlmrston,  her  beloved,  was  guiltless  in  intention, 
as  he  was  in  deed  !  the  thought  of  crime  had  not  been  near  his 
heart !  his  long  remorse  had  been  occasioned  by  what  he  had 
unintentionally  made  her  suffer.  He  was  all  that  he  had  lately 
appeared  to  the  world  !  all  that  he  had  at  first  appeared  to  her  I 
— faithful,  truthful,  constant,  noble,  generous  ! — her  heart  was 
Tindicated !  her  love  was  not  the  madness,  the  folly,  the  weak- 
ness that  her  intellectual  nature  had  often  stamped  it  to  be! 
Her  love  was  vindicated,  for  he  deserved  it  all !  Oh  !  joy  un- 
speakable— oh  !  joy  insupportable  ! 

She  was  a  strong,  calm,  self-governing  woman — not  wont  to 
be  overcome  by  any  event  or  any  emotion — yet  now  her  head 


THE      TRIAL.  627 

her  whole  form,  drooped  forward,  and  she  sank  upon  the  low 
balustrade  in  front  of  her  seat — weighed  down  by  excess  of 
happiness — happiness  so  absorbing,  that  for  a  time  she  forgot 
everything  else ;  but  soon  she  remembered  that  her  presence 
was  required  near  the  bench,  to  put  a  stop  to  the  debate  be- 
tween the  lawyers,  and  she  strove  to  quell  the  tumultuous  ex- 
citement of  her  feelings,  and  to  recover  self-command  before 
going  among  them. 

In  the  meantime,  near  the  bench,  the  counsel  for  the  priso- 
ner had  succeeded  in  establishing  the  validity  of  the  challenged 
testimony,  and  the  case  was  once  more  about  to  be  recommitted 
to  the  jury,  when  the  lady,  who  had  been  quietly  making  her 
way  through  the  crowd  towards  the  bench,  stood  immediately 
in  front  of  the  judge,  raised  her  veil,  and  Marian  Mayfield 
stood  revealed. 

With  a  loud  cry  the  prisoner  sprang  upon  his  feet ;  but  was 
immediately  captured  by  two  officers,  who  fancied  he  was  about 
to  escape. 

Marian  did  not  speak  one  word,  she  could  not  do  so,  nor 
was  it  necessary — there  she  stood  alive  among  them — they  all 
knew  her — the  judge,  the  officers,  the  lawyers,  the  audience — 
there  she  stood  alive  among  them — it  was  enough  ! 

The  audience  arose  in  a  mass,  and  "Marian!"  "Marian 
Mayfield  1"  was  the  general  exclamation,  as  all  pressed  towarda 
the  new  comer. 

Jacquelina,  stunned  with  the  too  sudden  joy,  swooned  in  the 
arms  of  Cloudy,  who,  between  surprise  and  delight,  had  nearly 
lost  his  own  senses. 

The  people  pressed  around  Marian,  with  exclamations  and 
inquiries. 

The  marshal  forgot  to  be  disorderly  with  vociferations  of 
"  order  1"  and  stood  among  the  rest,  agape  for  news. 

Marian  recovered  her  voice  and  spoke  : — 

"  I  am  not  here  to  give  any  information  ;  what  explanation  I 
have  to  make  is  due  first  of  all  to  Mr.  Willcoxen,  who  has  the 
right  to  claim  it  of  me  when  he  pleases,"  and  turning  around, 


628  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

sne  moved  towards  the  dock,  raising  her  eyes  to  Thnrstou's 
face,  and  offering  her  hand. 

How  he  met  that  look — how  he  clasped  that  hand — need  not 
be  said — their  hearts  were  too  full  for  speech. 

The  tumult  in  the  court-room  was  at  length  subdued  by  the 
rising  of  the  judge  to  make  a  speech — a  very  brief  one— 

"  Mr.  Willcoxen  is  discharged,  and  the  court  adjourned," 
and  then  the  judge  came  down  from  his  seat,  and  the  officers 
cried,  "make  way  for  the  court  to  pass."  And  the  way  was 
made.  The  judge  came  up  to  to  the  group,  and  shook  hands 
first  with  Mr.  Willcoxen,  whom  he  earnestly  congratulated, 
and  then  with  Marian,  who  was  an  old  and  esteemed  acquaint- 
ance, and  so  bowing  gravely,  he  passed  out. 

Still  the  crowd  pressed  on,  and  among  them  came  Commo- 
dore Waugh  and  his  family,  for  whom  way  was  immediately 
made. 

Mrs.  Waugh  wept  and  smiled,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Oh  !  Hebe  ! 
Oh  !  Lapwing !" 

The  Commodore  growled  out  certain  inarticulate  anathemas, 
which  he  intended  should  be  taken  as  congratulations,  since  the 
people  seemed  to  expect  it  of  him. 

And  Mary  L'Oiseau  pulled  down  her  mouth,  cast  up  her 
eyes,  and  crossed  herself  when  she  saw  the  consecrated  hand 
of  Sister  Theresa  clasped  in  that  of  Cloudy ! 

But  Thurston's  high  spirit  could  not  brook  this  scene  an  in- 
stant longer.  And  love  as  well  as  pride  required  its  speedy 
close.  Marian  was  resting  on  his  arm — he  felt  the  clasp  of  her 
dear  hand — he  saw  her  living  face — the  angel  brow — the  clear 
eyes — the  rich  auburn  tresses,  rippling  around  the  blooming 
cheek — he  heard  her  dulcet  tones — yet — it  seemed  too  like  a 
dreara  ! — he  needed  to  realize  this  happiness. 

"  Friends,"  he  said,  "  I  thank  you  for  the  interest  you  show 
in  us.  For  those  whose  faith  in  me  remained  unshaken  in  my 
darkest  hour,  I  find  no  words  good  enough  to  express  what  I 
shall  ever  feel.  But  you  must  all  know  how  exhausting  this 
day  has  been,  and  how  needful  repose  is" — I: is  eyes  here  fell 


REUNION. 


fondly  and  proudly  upon  Marian — "  to  this  lady  on  my  arm. 
After  to-morrow  we  shall  be  happy  to  see  any  of  our  frwnda 
at  Dell-Delight."  And  bowing  slightly  from  right  to  left,  he 
led  his  Marian  through  the  opening  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

REUNION. 

"0!  my  soul's  joy! 

If  after  every  tempest  coine  such  calms! 
My  soul  bath  her  content  so  absolute, 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate."— Sial-speare. 

WHO  dial  I  follow  them,  or  intrude  on  the  sacredncss  of  the'f 
reconciliation,  or  relate  with  what  broken  tones,  and  frequent 
stops  and  tears  and  smiles,  and  clinging  embraces,  their 
mutual  explanations  were  made  ? 

At  last  Marian,  raising  her  head' from  his  shoulder,  said, 

"But  I  come  to  you  a  bankrupt,  dear  Thurston  !  I  have  in- 
herited and  expended  a  large  fortune  since  we  parted — and  now 
I  am  more  than  penniless,  for  I  stand  responsible  for  large 
sums  of  money  owed  by  my  'Orphans'  Home'  and  'Emigrants' 
Help' — money  that  I  had  intended  to  raise  by  subscription." 

"  Now,  I  thank  God  abundantly  for  the  wealth  that  He  has 
given  me.  Your  fortune,  dearest  Marian,  has  been  nobly  ap- 
propriated— and  for  the  rest,  it  is  my  blessed  privilege  to  assume 
all  your  responsibilities — and  I  rejoice  that  they  are  great !  for, 
sweetest  wife,  and  fairest  lady,  I  feel  that  I  never  can  sufficiently 
prove  how  much  I  love  and  reverence  you — how  much  I  would 
and  ought  to  sacrifice  for  you  !" 

''And  even  now,  dear  Thurston,  I  came  hither,  bound  on  a 
mission  to  the  western  prairies,  to  find  a  suitable  piece  of  land 
for  n  colony  of  emigrants." 
62* 


630  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

'•I  know  it,  fairest  and  dearest  lady,  I  know  it  all.  I  will 
lift  that  burden  from  yoiir  shoulders,  too,  and  all  liabilities  of 
yours  do  I  assume — oh  I  my  dear  Marian  !  with  how  much  joy  ! 
and  I  will  labor  with  and  for  you,  until  ail  your  responsibilities 
of  every  sort  are  discharged,  and  my  liege  lady  is  free  to  live 
her  own  life  1" 

This  scene  took  place  in  the  private  parlor  of  the  hotel,  while 
Paul  Douglass  was  gone  to  Colonel  Thornton's  lodgings,  to 
carry  the  glad  tidings  to  Miriam,  and  also  to  procure  a  carriage 
for  the  conveyance  of  the  whole  party  to  Dell-Delight. 

He  returned  at  last,  accompanied  by  Miriam,  whom  he  ten- 
derly conducted  into  the  room,  and  who,  passing  by  all  others, 
tottered  forward,  and  sank,  weeping,  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  AVili- 
tv>xen,  and  clasping  his  knees,  still  wept,  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

Thurston  stooped  and  raised  her,  pressed  the  kiss  of  forgive- 
ness on  her  young  brow,  and  then  whispering, 

"  Miriam,  have  you  forgotten  that  there  is  another  here  who 
claims  your  attention  ?"  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  to 
Marian. 

The  youna:  girl  was  shy  and  silent,  but  Marian  drew  her  to 
her  bosom,  saying, 

"Has  my  '  baby' forgotten  me?  And  so,  you  would  have 
been  an  avenger,  Miriam.  Remember,  all  your  life,  dear  child, 
that  such  an  office  is  never  to  be  assumed  by  an  erring  human 
creature.  'Yengeance  is  mine,  and  I  will  repay,  saith  the 
Lord.' "  And  kissing  Miriam  fondly,  she  resigned  her  to 
Paul's  care,  and  turned,  and  gave  her  own  hand  to  Thurston, 
who  conducted  her  to  the  carriage,  and  then  returned  for  little 
Angel,  who  all  this  time  had  sat  demurely  in  a  little  parlor  chair. 

They  were  followed  by  Paul  and  Miriam,  and  so  set  forth  for 
Dell-Delight. 

But  little  more  remains  to  be  told. 

Thurston  resigned  his  pastoral  charge  of  the  village  church ; 
settled  up  his  business  in  the  neighborhood ;  procured  a  discreet 
woma::  tc  keep  house  at  Dell-Delight;  left  Paul,  Miriam  auj 


REUNION.  631 

poor  Fanny  in  her  care,  and  set  out  with  Marian,  on  their  west- 
ern journey,  to  select  the  site  for  the  settlement  of  her  emigrant 
proteges.  After  successfully  accomplishing  this  mission,  they 
returned  east,  and  embarked  for  Liverpool,  and  thence  to  Lon- 
don, where  Marian  dissolved  her  connection  with  the  "Emi- 
grant's Help,"  and  bade  adieu  to  her  "Orphans'  Home." 
Thurston  made  large  donations  to  both  these  institutions.  And 
Marian  saw  that  her  place  was  well  supplied  to  the  "  Orphans' 
Home"  by  another  competent  woman.  Then  they  returned  to 
America.  Their  travels  had  occupied  more  than  twelve  mouths. 
And  their  expenses,  of  all  sorts,  had  absorbed  more  than  a  third 
of  Mr.  Willcoxen's  princely  fortune — yet  with  what  joy  was  it 
lavished  by  his  hand,  who  felt  he  could  not  do  too  much  for  his 
priceless  Marian. 

On  their  return  home,  a  heartfelt  gratification  met  them — it 
was  that  the  parish  had  shown  their  undiminished  confidence  in 
Mr.  Willcoxen,  and  their  high  appreciation  of  his  services,  by 
keeping  his  pulpit  open  for  him.  And  a  few  days  after  his 
settlement  at  home,  a  delegation  of  the  vestry  waited  upon  him, 
to  solicit  his  acceptance  of  the  ministry.  And  after  talking 
with  his  "liege  lady,"  as  he  fondly  and  proudly  termed  Marian, 
Mr.  Willcoxen  was  well  pleased  to  return  a  favorable  answer. 

And  in  a  day  or  two  Thurston  and  Marian  were  called  upon 
to  give  decision  in  another  cause,  to  wit : — 

Jacquelina  had  not  returned  to  Bethlehem,  nor  renewed  her 
vows  ;  but  had  doffed  her  nun's  habit  for  a  young  lady's  dress 
and  remained  at  Luckenough  Cloudy  had  not  failed  to  push 
his  suit  with  all  his  might.  But  Jacquelina  still  hesitated — she 
did  not  know,  she  said,  but  she  thought  she  had  no  right  to  be 
happy,  as  other  people  had,  she  had  caused  so  much  trouble  ic 
the  world,  she  reckoned  she  had  better  go  back  to  her  convent. 

"And  because  you  unintentionally  occasioned  some  sorrow, 
now  happily  over,  to  some  people,  you  would  atone  for  the 
fault  by  adding  one  more  to  the  list  of  victims,  and  making  me 
miserable  Bad  logic,  Lina,  and  worse  religion." 

Jaequelina  did  not  know — she  could  not  decide — after  so 


t>d2  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

manv  grave  errors,  she  was  afraid  to  trust  herself.  The  matter 
was  then  referred — of  all  men  in  the  world,  to  the — Commodore, 
who  graciously  replied,  that  they  might  all  go  to  the  demon 
for  him.  But  as  Cloudy  and  Lina  had  no  especial  business 
with  his  Satanic  Majesty,  they  declined  to  avail  themselves  of 
the  permission,  and  consulted  Mrs.  Wangh,  whose  deep,  mellow 
laugh  preceded  her  answer,  when  she  said, 

"  Take  heart,  Lapwing  !  take  heart,  and  all  the  happiness  you 
cnn  possibly  get !  I  have  lived  a  long  time,  and  seen  a  great 
many  people,  good  and  bad,  and  though  I  have  sometimes  met 
people  who  were  not  so  happy  as  they  merited — yet  I  never 
have  seen  any  one  happier  than  they  deserved  to  be !  and  that 
they  cannot  be  so,  seems  to  be  a  law  of  nature  that  ought  to 
reconcile  us  very  much  to  the  apparent  flourishing  of  the 
wicked." 

But  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  warned  her  daughter  not  to  trust  to 
"  Aunty,"  who  was  so  good  natured,  and  altogether  such  a  mis- 
guided woman,  that  if  she  had  her  will  she  would  do  away  with 
all  punishment — yes,  even  with  Satan  and  purgatory  !  But 
Jacquelina  had  much  less  confidence  in  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  than  in 
Mrs.  Waugh ;  and  so  she  told  Cloudy,  who  thought  that  he  had 
waited  already  quite  long  enough,  to  wait  until  Marian  and 
Thurston  came  home,  and  if  they  thought  it  would  be  right  for 
her  to  be  happy — why — then — maybe — she  might  be !  But  the 
matter  must  be  referred  to  them. 

And  now  it  was  referred  to  them,  by  the  sorely  tried  Cloudy. 
And  they  gave  Jacquelina  leave  to  be  "  happy."  And  she  was 
happy  1  And  as  for  Cloudy,  poor,  constant  fellow !  he  was  so 
overjoyed,  that  he  declared  he  would  petition  the  Legislature  to 
change  his  name  as  no  longer  appropriate,  for  though  his  morn- 
ing had  been  cloudy  enough,  his  day  was  going  to  be  a  very 
bright  one  1 

When  Mrs.  L'Oiseau  heard  of  this  engagement,  she  crossed 
herself,  and  told  her  beads,  and  vowed  that  the  world  was  grow- 
ing so  wicked,  that  she  could  no  longer  live  in  it.  And  hhe 
commenced  preparations  to  retire  to  a  convent,  to  which  in  fact 


REUNION.  633 

she  soon  after  went,  and  where,  in  strict  truth,  the  was  likely 
to  be  much  happier  than  her  nature  would  permit  her  to  be 
elsewhere. 

Cloudy  and  Lina  were  very  quietly  married,  and  took  up  their 
abode  at  the  pleasant  farm-house  of  Locust  Hill,  which  was  re- 
paired and  refurnished  for  their  reception.  But  if  the  leopard 
cannot  change  his  spots,  nor  the  Ethiope  his  skin — neither  can 
the  fairy  permanently  change  her  nature ;  for  no  sooner  was 
Jacko's  happiness  secured,  than  the  elfish  spirit,  the  lightest 
part  of  her  nature,  effervesced  to  the  top — for  the  torment  of 
Cloudy.  Jacko  and  Cloudy  even  had  one  quarrel — it  was  upon 
the  first  occasion  after  their  marriage,  of  his  leaving  her  to  join 
his  ship — and  when  the  whilome  sister  of  charity  drove  Cloudy 
nearly  frantic  by  insisting — whether  in  jest  or  earnest  no  one 
on  earth  could  tell — upon  donning  the  little  middy's  uniform 
and  going  with  him !  Ilowever,  the  quarrel  happily  was  never 
renewed,  for  before  the  next  time  of  sailing,  there  appeared  a 
certain  tiny  Cloudy  at  home,  that  made  the  land  quite  as  dear 
as  the  sea  to  its  mother.  And  this  little  imp  became  Mrs. 
Waugh's  especial  pet.  And  if  Jacquelina  did  not  train  the 
little  scion  very  straight,  at  least  she  did  not  twist  him  awry. 
And  she  even  tried,  in  her  fitful  capricious  way,  to  reform  her 
own  manners,  that  she  might  form  those  of  her  little  children. 
And  Mrs.  "Waugh  and  dear  Marian  aided  her  and  encouraged 
her  in  her  uncertain  efforts. 

About  this  time,  Paul  and  Miriam  were  united,  and  went  to 
housekeeping  in  the  pretty  villa  built  for  them  upon  the  site  of 
Old  Field  Cottage  by  Thurston,  and  furnished  for  them  by  Mrs. 
AVaugh. 

And  a  very  pleasant  country  neighborhood  they  formed — 
these  three  young  families — of  Dell-Delight,  Locust  Hill,  and 
the  villa. 

Two  other  important  events  occurred  in  their  social  circle — 
first,  poor  harmless  Fanny  passed  smilingly  to  her  heavenly 
home,  and  all  thought  it  very  well. 

And  one  night  Commodore  Waugh,  after  eating  a  good 


<>34  THE      MISSING      BRIDE. 

hearty  supper,  was  comfortably  tucked  up  in  bed,  and  went 
into  a  sound,  deep  sleep  from  which  he  never  more  awoke.  May 
he  rest  in  peace.  But  do  you  think  Mrs.  Waugh  did  not  cry 
about  it  for  two  weeks,  and  ever  after  speak  of  him  as  the  poor, 
dear  Commodore  ? 

But  Henrietta  was  of  too  healthful  a  nature  to  break  her 
heart  for  the  loss  of  a  very  good  man,  and  it  was  not  likely  she 
was  going  to  do  so  for  the  missing  of  a  very  uncomfortable 
one ;  and  so  in  a  week  or  two  more  her  happy  spirits  returned, 
and  she  began  to  realize  to  what  freedom,  ease,  and  cheerfulness 
she  had  fallen  heir !  ISTow  she  could  live  and  breathe,  and  go 
and  come  without  molestation.  Now  when  she  wished  to  open 
her  generous  heart  to  the  claims  of  affection  in  the  way  of  help- 
ing "  Lapwing"  or  Miriam,  who  were  neither  of  them  very 
rich — or  to  the  greater  claims  of  humanity  in  the  relief  of  the 
suffering  poor,  or  the  pardon  of  delinquent  servants,  she  could 
do  so  to  her  utmost  content,  and  without  having  to  accompany 
her  kind  act  with  a  deep  sigh  at  the  anticipation  of  the  parlor 
storm  it  would  raise  at  home.  And  though  Mrs.  Henrietta 
still  "waxed  fat,"  her  good  flesh  was  no  longer  an  ir.cumbraiice 
to  her — the  leaven  of  cheerfulness  lightened  the  whole  mass. 

Mrs.  Waugh  had  brought  her  old  maid  Jenny  back.  Jenny 
had  begged  to  come  home  to  "old  niistess,"  for  she  said  it  was 
"  'stonishin'  how  age-able,"  she  felt,  though  nobody  might  be- 
lieve it,  she  was  "gcttin'  oler  and  oler,  ebery  singly  day"  of 
her  life,  and  she  wanted  to  end  her  days  '"long  o'  ole  mistess." 

Old  mistress  was  rich  and  good,  and  Luckenough  was  a 
quiet,  comfortable  home,  where  the  old  maid  was  very  sure 
of  being  lodged,  boarded,  and  clothed  almost  as  well  as  old 
mistress  herself — not  that  these  selfish  considerations  entered 
largely  into  Jenny's  mind,  for  she  really  loved  Mrs.  Henrietta. 

And  old  mistress  and  old  maid  were  never  happier  than  on 
Borne  fine,  clear  day,  when  seated  on  their  two  old  mules,  they 
ambled  along  through  forest  and  over  field,  to  spend  a  day  with 
"Lapwing"  or  with"Helse" — or  perhaps  with  the  "Pigeon 
Pair,"  as  they  called  the  new  married  couple  at  the  villa. 


REUNION.  635 

Yes!  there  was  a  time  when  Mrs.  Henrietta  was  happier 
still !  It  was,  when  upon  some  birthday  or  other  festival,  she 
would  gather  all  the  young  families — Thurston  and  Hebe, 
Cloudy  and  Lapwing,  the  Pigeons,  and  all  the  babies,  in  the  big 
parlor  of  Luckenough,  and  sit  surrounded  by  a  flock  of  tiny 
lapwings,  hebes  and  pigeons,  forming  a  group  that  our  fairy 
eauoily  called,  "The  old  hen  and  chickens." 

And  what  shall  we  say  in  taking  leave  of  Thurston  and  Ma- 
rian? He  had  had  some  faults,  as  you  have  seen — but  the 
conquering  of  faults  is  the  noblest  conquest,  and  he  had 
achieved  such  a  victory.  He  called  Marian  the  angel  of  his  salva- 
tion. Year  by  year  their  affection  deepened  and  strengthened, 
and  drew  them  closer  in  heart  and  soul  and  purpose.  From 
their  home  as  from  a  centre  emanated  a  healthful,  beneficent 
and  elevating  influence,  happily  felt  through  all  their  social 
circle.  A  lovely  family  grew  around  them — and  among  the 
beautiful  children,  none  were  more  tenderly  nursed  or  carefully 
trained,  than  the  little  waif  Angel.  And  in  all  the  pleasant 
country  neighborhood,  the  sweetest  and  the  happiest  home  is 
that  of  Dell-Delight. 

//  /     '// 


THE  END. 


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The      Discarded      Daughter. 
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The  Deserted  Wife.    Two  vols., 
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The     Belle     of    Washington. 
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The  Initials.   A  Love  Story  of 
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The  Dead  Secret.    Two  volumes, 
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Kiite    Aylesford.     Two  volumes, 
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E    HENTZ'S    WORKS. 
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paper  cover.      Price  One  Dollar;    or 

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paper  cover.      Price    Oue    Dollar;  or 
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Eoline*    or,    Magnolia    Vale. 

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MRS.   ANN    S.   STEPHENS'  WORKS. 

Mary  Derwent.    This  is  Mrs.  Ann  i  The  Old  Homestead.    Two  TJl- 
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by  Mi 


Price  $1.2.5. 


Mrs.   HaleS   New   Cook   Book. 

By  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale.     One  volume, 
bound.     Price  One  Dollar. 


e  iv    Receipts 

for  Cooking.     Complete  in   one 
nme,  bound.     Price  One  Dollar. 


Wlddlfleld's  New  Cook  Book, 

or,  Practical  Receipts  for  the  House- 
wife. Recommended  hy  all.  One  vol- 
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MRS.   HALE'S    RECEIPTS. 


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sand Five  Hundred  aud' Forty-five  Re- 
eeipts,  Facu,  Directions,  and  Know- 
ledge for  All,  in  the  Useful.  Orna- 


mental, and  Dom»?tic  Arts.  Being  a 
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MISS    PARDOE'S    WORKS. 

Confessions  of  a  Pretty   Wo-  ,  The    Rival    Beauties.     By   Mis» 


man.      By   Mi 


Pard. 


Complete 


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don. Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
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The  Wife's  Trials.     By  Miss  Pir- 

d 


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ver      Price  One 

oue  volume,  cloth,  for  *1.2f, 
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lar  ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  clo 

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DUODECIMO     ILLUSTRATED     EDITION     OF 
CHARLES    DICKEXS'    AVORKS. 

The  Editions  in  Duodecimo  form  are  beautifully  Illustrated  with  over  Five,  ffnn- 
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is  now  published  complete,  entire,  and  unabridged,  in  Twenty-five  beautiful  vol- 
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PEOPLE'S     DUODECIMO     EDITION. 

This  Duodecimo  edition  is  complete  in  Thirteen  volumes,  of  near  One  Thousand 
pages  each,  with  two  illustrations  to  each  volume,  and  contains  all  the  rtti'liiig 
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PUBLISHED     AND     FOR     SALE     BY 

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CHARLES    DICKENS'    AVORKS. 

Ttoenty-A'i7ie  Different  Editiimt. 

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LIBRARY    OCTAVO     EDITION. 

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ILLUSTRATED    OCTAVO    EDITION. 

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T.  8. 


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PUBLISHED     AND     FOR     SALE     BY 

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MRS.   ANN    S.   STEPHENS'  WORKS. 


Mary  Derwent.    This  is  Mrs.  Ann 
S.   Stephens'    new    work.     Complete 

The  Old   Homestead.    Two  vol- 
umes, paper  cover.     Price  One  Dollar  ; 

Oue  Dollar  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.25. 

The    Gipsy's  Legacy;  or,   the 

uines,  pa  per  cover.     1'rice  Oue  Dollar; 
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volumes,  paper  cover.     Price  One  Dol- 
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COOK    BOOKS.       BEST    IN    THE    WORLD. 


Bliss    Leslie's    New    Cookery 

Book.  Being  the  largest,  best,  and 
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Mrs.  Male's  New  Cook  Book. 
By  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale.  One  volume, 
bound.  Price  Oue  Dollar. 


Miss  Leslie's  New  Receipt* 
for  Cooking.  Complete  in  OL-* 
volume,  bound.  Price  Oue  Dollar. 

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MRS.  KALE'S  RECEIPTS. 
Mrs.  Hate's  Receipts  for  the 
Million.  Containing  Four  Thou- 
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ceipts, Facts,  Directions,  and  Know- 
ledge for  All,  in  the  Useful,  Orna- 


mental,  and  Domestic  Arts.  B*,air  a 
complete  Family  Directory  ^.i  House- 
hold Guide  for  the  Mill*-.  By  Mrs. 
Sarah  J.  Hale.  Oue  vol'^.e,  800  pages, 
strongly  bound.  P*1  „,  $1.25. 


MISS    PARDOE'S    WORKS. 

man.      By   Miss   Pardoe.     Complete 
in  oue  large  octavo  volume.     50  cents. 
The  Jealous  Wife.     By  Miss  Par- 
due.     Complete    iu   oue   large   octavo 
volume.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Pardoe.     Complete  in  oue  large  octavo 
volume.     Price  Kilty  cents. 
Romance    of  the    Harem.     By 

Mi>s   Pardoe.     Complete  iu  one  large 

doe.      Complete   iu   oue   large  octavo 
volume.     Price  Fifty  centa. 

Tlie  wliol*  ,tf  the  afoot  Five  works  are. 
ftlyo  homtfi   in  clolk,  yitt,  in  nit  largt 
octnvu  vulume.     Price  $2.50. 

JAS.    A.  MAITLAND'S    GREAT    WORKS. 

The  Diary  of  an  Old  Doctor.  |  The    Lawyer's    Story j   or,  Ttic 
Complet"   in    iwo   vols.,   paper  cove 
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The  Watchman.  Complete  in  two 
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The  Wanderer.  Complete  in  two 
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lar ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 


Orpha 


Wrougs.     Tw 

c..vei.  Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  bouud  in 
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Sartaroe.     A  Tale  of  Norway. 

Highly  recommended  by  Washington 
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percover.  Price  One  dollar  ;  or  bound 
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PUBLISHED     ANC 

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MRS.    SOUTHAV( 

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The  Three  Beauties.    Complete 

Best  and  Latest  Publications  by 
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>     FOR     SALE     BY 

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S^r-^*-+*rT**~*^-m>s~*>s~*>*~+*r-**~*. 

>RTH'S  WORKS. 

siou.     Two  vols.,  paper  cover.    Price 
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The  Curse  of  Clifton.  Tw-rols., 
paper    cover.     Price   Oue    Dollar  :   or 
bouud  in  one  volume,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The      Discarded      Daughter. 
Two  volumes,  paper  cover.     Price  One 
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The  Deserted  Wife.    Twovols., 
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The     Belle     of    Washington. 
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The  Initials.   A  Love  Story  of 

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cloth,  for  $1.25. 

Vlvla.     The  Secret  of  Power. 

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In.lla.      The    Pearl    of   Pearl 
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The    Wife's   Victory.     Two  vol- 

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The  Lost  Heiress.    Two  volumes, 
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The    Missing    Bride.     Two   vol- 
umes, paper  cover.     Price  One  Dollar  ; 

cover.     Price  $1.00;  or  in  one  volume, 
cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Dead  Secret.    Two  volumes, 
paper  cover.      Price  One   Dollar,    or 
bouud  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1  25. 
Kate    Aylesford.     Two.  volume, 
paper  cover.      Price  One   Dollar;   or 
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E    HENTZ'S    WORKS. 
Rena;    or,    The     Snow    Bird. 
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Marcus  Warland.     Two  volumes, 
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MRS.  CAROLINE    LE 
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Planter's      Northern      Bride. 

paper  cover.  600  panes.     Price  Oue  Dol- 
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Linda.     The    Voting    Pilot  of 
the  Belle  Creole.   Two  v»l  times, 
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paper  cover.      Price    Oue    Dollar  ;    or 
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Courtship  and  Marriage.  Two 

Tolumes,  paper  cover.     Price  One  Dol- 
lar ;  or  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1  .25. 

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Love  after  Marriage.  Twovolg., 
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The     Banished  Son.     Twa  vols., 

Helen    and    Arthur.     Twovols., 
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bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.26. 

rill  be  sent  by  Mail  to  any  one.  Free  Co 
in  a  letter  to  Peterson  &  Brothers.  Q 

r,  B.  ™SM_&JRO^^ 

The  Books  on  this  Page  are  the  Best    and   Latest   Publications  by 

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PUBLISHED     AND     FOR     SALE     BY 

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DUODECIMO     ILLUSTRATED     EDITION     OF 
CHARLES    DICKENS'    WORKS. 

The  Editions  in  Duodecimo  form  are  beautifully  Illustrated  with  over  Five  Uun- 
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ts  now  published  complete,  entire,  and  unabridged,  in  Twenty-five  beautiful  vol- 
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Price  of  a  sett  In  Twenty-Five  volumes,  bound  in  Black  cloth,  gilt  backs $30.00 

'«  "          Full   Law  Library  style, 40.00 

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"  "          Halfcalf,  ancient  antique 60.00 

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PEOPLE'S     DUODECIMO    EDITION. 

This  Duodecimo  edition  is  completein  Thirteen  volumes,  of  near  Ote  Thousand 
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volumes  are  sold  separately,  in  cloth,  price  One  Dollar  and  Fifty  cents  each. 

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HUMOROUS    It-t-tSTRATKD    \VORfciS. 


Major    Jones'  Courtship    and 

Two  vols.,   paper  cover.      Price  One 

One  volume,  cloth      Price  $1.25. 

Simon       Suggs'      Adventure* 

Kin.     Full  of  beautiful    illustrations. 
One  volum..  cloth.     Price  $1  Zi. 
Sam  Slick.,  the    Clock  maker. 

By    Judge    Haliburtou.       Illustrated. 

volume,  cloth.     Price  $1.26. 
Humors  of  Falcoiibrldge.  Two 

volumes,  paper  cover.     Prio?  One  Dol- 
lar ;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

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c. 


The  Books  on  this  Page  are  the  Best  and  Latest  Publications  by 
the  most  Popular  and  Celebrated  Writers  it  the  World.     They  are 

also  the  most  Readable  and  Entertaining  "*ooks  published. 
Suitable  for  tin  Parlor,  lihary,  Sitting-Room,  Railroad,  Steamta.,  cr  Chamto  Reading. 

PUBLISHED     AND     FOR     SALE     BY 

T.  B    PETERSON   &  BROTHERS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

CHARLES    DICKENS'    WORKS. 

Twenty-Nine  Different  Editum*. 

"PETERSON'S"  are  the  only  complete  and  uniform  editions  ot  Charles  Dickens' 
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public  or  private,  can  be  complete  without  having  in  it  a  complete  sett  of  the 
works  of  this,  the  greatest  of  all  living  authors.  Every  family  should  possess  a 
sett  of  one  of  the  editions.  The  cheap  edition  is  published  an  follows  : 


Little   Dorrlt, Price  60  cents 


tlewlt,....  60 

Dlcken*'  New  Stories,  60      »         Barnab      Rudge, 

Bleak    House, ....  60      " 


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Dombey    and    Sou,.. 

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Christmas  Stories,  Price  60  cents. 


Old  Curiosity   Shop,....  60 

Sketches  by  "Box," CO 

Oliver    Twist, 60 


LIBRARY    OCTAVO    EDITION. 

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ILLUSTRATED    OCTAVO     EDITION. 

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by  Crniksbank,  Alfred  Crowquill,  Phiz,  etc.,  from  the  original  London  editionf.on 
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of  Postage,  on  mailing  the  Price  in  a  letter  to  Peterson  &  Brothers. 


f\  of 

OO 


The  Books  on  this  Page  are  the   Best    and   Latest   Publications  by 

the  most  Popular  and  Celebrated  Writers  in  the  World.     They  are 

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PUBLISHED     AND     FOR     SALE     BY 

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AIRS.   ANN    S.   STEPHENS'  WORKS. 


Mary  Derweiit.  This  is  Mrs.  Ann 
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in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price 
One  Dollar ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.25. 

Fashion  and  Famine.  Two  vol- 
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The  Old  Homestead.  Two  vol- 
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The  Gipsy's  Legacy;  or,  th« 
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COOK    BOOKS.       BEST    IN    THE    WORLD. 


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Airs.  Kale's  New  Cook  Book. 
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Mrs.  Male's  Receipts   for  the 

Million.  Containing  Four  Thou- 
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MRS.   HALE'S   RECEIPTS. 

mental,   and  Dotnest 


Arts.     Being  a 
nplete  Family  Directory  and  House- 
hold Guide  for  the  Million.     By  Mrs. 
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MISS    PARDOE'S    WORKS. 


Confessions  of  a  Pretty   Wo- 

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octdtxi  volume.     Pric.e  $2.'>0. 


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The  Wanderer.     Complete  iu  two 
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The    Lawyer's    Story?   or,  The 

Orphan's  Wrongs.     Two  vols.,  paper 
cover      Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  hound  in 
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Sartaroe.     A  Tale  of  Norway. 

Highly  recommended  by  Washington 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NO  PHONE  RENEWALS 


DATE  SEN 


MAR  08  1996 


DUES  iviONTf-,S  hn 
DATE  RECEIVED 


JUN11199B 


31158012807615 


